Shall it be a far-off meadow, beside a lonely shade tree, as your fingers claw your anguish into the dirt and your thin, choked cries of despair are met with the songs of disinterested birds? Would you be inclined to distantly, dispassionately observe the progress of a solitary ant across your forearm as I do things to your body that will cleave it from its senses? Do you want me to sweat atop you in the summer heat, and feel each drop of my effort burn as it drips from my brow into your wide, vacant eyes? Would you like to feel the brittle grass scratch your urgent, autonomous hips as they meet my ruthless rut with a vigor that would shame a better woman?
Is it suitable, do you think, that I kill your dignity there, upon the altar of earth?