"Amico mio, I do not presume to imagine." Cesare nibbles on a hangnail to gain time, then looks up. "You can talk to malicious wingèd horses. You can do things faster than the mind's eye. Who am I to say you're... predictable, when you tell me your home is not of this planet, and if it is, I - allotted merely a human lifespan - have to consider it a place I shall never see?" He falls silent, drinks, pouts. Drinks some more.
"And you must think me a man of dull senses, to not see the beauty of small things." What am I, he wants to whine, a brute? A monster? Do I seem this unamendable to you, impermeable to all beauty and reason? "Perhaps," he hedges, "perhaps we simply weighed things differently, Master."