Of

The expected glow of a computer screen conspicuously absent. In its place the shallow hues of old Christmas lights stapled to the walls, so he sits, a basement stoner, on the corpse of a couch, at least as old as he is, in the dull orange light, smoke tendriling up through the hot summer air trapped in the room, deprived of the freedom of midnight breezes, the smoke now pollinating the air, tickling the gentle hairs in the nostrils of those with noses for such things, like the addition of cheese to a burger, that little extra ingredient that makes the whole meal better, or so he tells me, or tries to tell me, but his speech is too slow, too stunted to decipher properly so all I hear is a string of ums and likes and totallys , the true language of those types, sadly content with inferior communicative abilities, unable even to deliver the most basic indication of coherent thought, whereas I have vastly superior skills and a functioning knowledge of human emotion, like the perfect cyborg assassin, programmed with just information to complete the mission, whatever that may be.