You bastard. You unmitigated prick. I trusted you.
Clearly you weren't satisfied with the arrangement we'd reached, viz I feed you and you keep me upright, with neuronal service thrown in. At some point you said to yourself: Hmmm, I want more out of life than he's giving me. I want... 2007.
You wanted a year of our precious life to show me who's boss. And you believed, because you were hidden away under skin, muscle and membrane, that I wouldn't call you to account. But you haven't been paying attention. We have CT scans. We have MRIs. And most importantly, we have general anaesthetic and sharp knives. On Tuesday, ownership of the body passes back to me. I will step into a darkness that you can't follow, and when I emerge, you will be left on the other side. And I will walk away, with you behind me, finally, helplessly upright.