I embrace my son so fully that we become a comma in the world. I sway; we sway. Neither of us makes a sound. It is not necessary here. For a moment the people around us stare curiously, but distraction and amnesia set in and soon we are alone again. An affectionate father is still a strange enough sight to draw attention. I feel my little boy’s head nuzzle deeper into my neck and his breath strike my bare skin. I pat his back and he pats mine. It is our way of comforting each other. It is important for him to know that he can affect the people closest to him. Yet again I wonder if there is no alternative to the way it is, or whether this really is the best we can do as the human race. Yoshi is just over two years of age. His mother leaves for work each morning before he has woken. I drop him off at an institution run by souls who sterilize their emotions daily; in this place, where right now, we are an island in an ocean of angry and pitiful wailing. Where in a moment I will toss him overboard to either drown or swim on his own. I have seen the look in his eyes as I leave. It tells me everything I need to know. It begs: How can you truly live when you kill a piece of yourself every day?