I am of those fortunate enough to have become not only acquainted, but conversant, with the man that saved my life. He has been magnanimous enough to have scooped my ragged body from a destiny of destitution, wallowing in the base filth of the street and the alley and the deeds said locations require to survive therein, and to fold me into his own luminescent existence between walls that seem, to a simple beggar like myself, to comprise a gilded palace. By this extraordinary circumstance of owing this man my life and whatever servitude that may provide, I am conditioned to believe that each sound he makes, whether by intention or accident, is a personal call rousing me to adventure, sustenance, or attendance, any of which would be equally pleasurable for my person.
For the fact that it has taken some fortitudinous efforts on his part to acclimate me to my pulchritudinous surroundings, I cannot, for my part, fault him. Whatever sharpness he finds necessary to break me of my more barbaric instincts can and must be required to bring me to a state of parallel with my newfound station. Languor begs obeisance, and I am not of a constitution to find fault in either. I presume my presence generally to be one of congeniality, or at least occasional comfort, else he should banish me from his company eternally, rather than the occasional exile for the spell of an hour, wherein I am left to my own devices in his expansive garden. There I wander, investigating what paths my feet find familiar, and those whose secreted corners I know not of.
At uneven intervals upon this cycle of perambulation am I assaulted by a presence most foul and confounding. Through a frustratingly minor gap in the boundary circumscribing the property, a cyclopean eye marks my movements, its maddening gaze seeming to possess the sole purpose of driving me to distraction, as I shout oaths of my plans to rid the universe of this single, umbral spot on my happiness. It seems to laugh as I heed the summons of my companion, causing me to forget until I stumble upon it again upon unholy occasions hence.