"Right," he says, nodding firmly as if he understands any of it - this wounds and dreams business is just awfully, terribly new, and he thinks he's been adapting quite nicely, but there's just so much information coming streaming for him at once and he doesn't even have the luxury of organized files in his programming anymore. How do humans keep everything straight in their organic little heads?

"Hurts, though." He gives his fingers a final shake and then, without any idea of what he should be doing next but knowing with utter certainty that he's not overly eager to keep looking at it, shoves his hand into his pants pocket. There. That's pressure of a sort, isn't it? Problem solved!

"So you've got flowers but they can hurt you," he clarifies, now surveying the be-thorned roses with more suspicion than awe. "Doesn't seem like such a fair exchange. What's the point of living up on the surface if everything's trying to bloody kill you all the time?"