Reciprocity of sensation is not possible because to share is to be robbed.
As for my father, few souls are less troubled. He can be simply pleased with us, pleased that we exist, and, from the vantage point of his wondrously serene old age, he contemplates our lives almost as if they were books he can dip into whenever he wants. His back pages, perhaps.
I desire therefore I exist.
Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves.
What would the daughters of the rich do with themselves if the poor ceased to exist?
Among the monsters, I am well hidden; who looks for a leaf in a forest?