Charles talks about his feelings too much. I told him that feelings weren't as important as lumber, and occasionally sex, but he doesn't understand. He talks about things with too many feelings and emotions and not enough logic and common sense, and I keep him around, even though such traits make for a horrible businessman. Charles wants me to stoop smoking and it's important that I never show my real face, to him. Sometimes when he goes on about love and such I try to drown him out with smoke and wood and profits, but now and then I can still hear him. And I guess that means I care too, huh? I can feel the words edging awkwardly through my skin and settling somewhere in my chest. I think that means I have feelings.
I hate it that Sir smokes. I hate that I'm constantly aware of furls of smoke around and in my nostrils like little wisps of disregard. There was this book I read that told me what we were doing was normal, but I didn't even tell Sir because he would have snorted somewhere in his little cloud and tell me to quit reading. Sir thinks reading is a waste of time, and I would have said yes Sir. Sir thinks he is in charge. When we lie down at night, there is a pause where I say I Love You Sir and he says nothing, but I can sense the atmospheric expressionless change around this cloud and there wouldn't be one if I had said "I hate you, sir," instead. I never could say it, but I still feel I have some control.