"You spend a lot of time in your head, don't you?", he asked.
"Yes", I replied. "I find solace in my own thoughts, as choatic as they can become".
He spoke as he scribbled on his notebook, half of his attention on writing and half on the solemn looking adolescent before him.
"Do you enjoy being alone?"
"Yes", I answered, but after a brief pause, "and no. I have a blunt dislike for my species. They aggitate me. They are greedy, selfish, immoral creatures. I believe that part of my hatred comes from the fact that they remind me of myself. Of who, and what, I am. However, there are a few of them that I take pleasure in being around."
He reached for his mug, glancing at the clockface behind me as he did so, and slurped the dark liquid inside. Adjusting the spectacles onto the bridge of his boney nose, he asked my most hated of questions.
"How do you feel?"
I answered quickly, funcionally.
"I don't"
He let out a short sigh.
"Let me rephrase", he said with an impatient grin.
"How are you feeling?"
I replied simply and truthfully.
"I'm not"
