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I got you transformed long ago. My shrunken man. You wake up and you’re already under my foot. I make coffee. You're there. I eat breakfast. You're there. I work. I clean. I walk through my day, living my life, and you're exactly where you belong. Under me. As a real human insole. This is the life of a human insole. Not a dramatic foot humiliation. Just... existence. Under my foot. Absorbing my weight. Being forgotten. You'll watch me live my life. Eat my meals. Walk through my house. Relax on my couch. And you'll be there. Silent. Still. Nothing. No praise. No acknowledgment. No relief. Just the pressure of my sole on your face. Hour after hour. Day after day. The same routine. The same indifference. The same quiet, constant degradation. You're not a person anymore. You're not even furniture. You're an insole. And this is your day.