Don’t you love my idealism? My hypocrisy? My willingness to sound as loving and naïve as possible? At least I know that I

don’t know anything at all. I can admit it. Can you? Can you look yourself in the mirror in the morning and admit that you are

no different from every other bundle of bones on this planet? And maybe the only things that make you different are your

hands, the way you touch things, and what happens to them.