I AM AFRAID to ask their names, although I don’t know why. I am afraid of a lot of things. Truly it is irrational, for how can a person just one line above the catatonic hurt me? He stands there, quite tall, about 6’ 3” I’d say, sort of rotating slowly on the balls of his feet, moving neither forward nor backward, with this plastic grin on his face. It is different, extremely different, from the “plastic smile” we attribute to superficial people. This grin is engraved on his face as if on Mt. Rushmore, and is absolutely expressionless. It’s just a formation of muscles, that’s all. I am wretched inside when I see him, and feel the height of guilt for just passing him by as I move along to my appointed task; though the truth is I feel just as wretched and guilty when I pass others on these floors.