I am sitting at your feet, on a soft carpet, tucking my legs under me and lowering my head. The heat from the flooded fireplace pleasantly warms the skin, and the right side of the face flushed in the reflections of the fire dancing on the walls, the ceiling, your motionless figure, the frowned forehead and the graceful hands holding the book. It is always cool, gloomy and dreary here, and the concrete walls do not have a single flaw, an opening in the form of windows, barbaric holes from screws or nails. Perfectly smooth, painted in a light beige shade that is pleasing to the eye, they press like...