Again, the diner’s white plate of fried potatoes under eggs over easy. Morning, a bright, quiet dying. Sun, competing with the yolks and orange juice, pours its screaming, feverish slice down over it all. You should try something different. Men like your father schlep around in shades, inside. Indifference or concealment for shame? You are reminded of how metallic you are on the surface, how dark inside. But most don’t see it—the robotic therapist, the retained attorney who was overly happy to have a black (but wise) client. Here is your gutter situation and in it you shine! Her job was brighter. Slap yourself; this is an issue of class! You should really order something different.