They know nothing about what you are, about what you represent. Your world means nothing to them. They won't try to understand. They'll be tired. They'll be cold. They'll build a fire from your lovely oak door. They'll shit all over your terrace and wipe their hands on the books in your library. They'll spit out your wine. They'll eat with their hands from the pretty pewterware.(This thread is inactive and will enter a gap soon.)
