There are these people in the world. They walk around, and they live their lives. They are perfectly amiable when they are engaged, and when they are not, they keep their silence. They do their work, often the same work you are doing. They do everything you do. They are not so different from you or me. They are you or me. But, every once in a while, they are walking. And they keep their heads down (maybe thinking, but who knows?). But, just occasionally, they will look up. And you'll be walking by. And you'll catch this look on their face (maybe it's the one they hold when they have their heads down, but who knows?). They are looking up, for the sky, as though it's not there. They look up for answers. But their faces, oh, their faces. There is such anguish. So much pain, bottled up, kept inside, held in silence. But, sometimes, only sometimes, it comes forth. And you see it. And it shocks you. It hurts you. What are they thinking of (if they are) that just seeing the thought behind their eyes can pain you? And how much more deeply, more viscerally, must they feel it? Occasionally, when the world wraps itself in darkness, these people let their faces slip. And it is terrible.