Everything is wrong. I can tell that you feel it too by how you have your wrists clenched too tightly, defying the crème de la crème poise you were taught to maintain when you were just a boy. Everything is wrong but your mouth would not betray you by letting the truth roll out freely because your kinsmen taught you that proletarians have no business seeing an upper crust’s asthenia.
You were formed out of the leaves of a baobab tree and I was made out of its branch, we can both be traced back to the same roots. Do what you like, deny it all you want but the truth is like dark clouds hanging over the earth, it is going to rain eventually. And when it does, your fine clothing would be drenched in the consequences of your arrogance and you would wish you had learned the sacred act of humility when you could.
Everything is wrong but you hide your fear cleverly under your fine satin but my eyes have seen many terrifying things in this lifetime, how could your fears be invisible to them? The thing is you and I are not so different. In fact, you are just like me. Clothe yourself in the most delicate satin, wash yourself in splendor and beauty, and let a thousand men worship at your feet, you can never escape who you truly are - a reflection of a proletariat.
