“You are, in your own way. You cry with blood. You cry with spreadsheets. It’s a little depraved and disturbing, if we’re being honest, but hey, far be it from me to criticize another man’s coping mechanisms. I’m just saying that I see you, Sasha Ozerov. I see what’s in front of you. And I want you to see what I’m seeing.” He slumps back against the bench. “That’s it. Lecture over. I’m out of poetry for the night.”
