When all is well I stride through life erect, like Atlas, bold, believing myself strong. Forgetting, like some pompous starchitect that I can be, occasionally, wrong. E.g., the child in me believes, when ill, the medical industrial complex will hold my little hand and care for me, not just perform advanced cash-ectomy. The workers in the trenches we all love: those nightingales—those people helping people— are nothing like the vultures up above. I.e. my nurse-practitioner’s first-rate— it is her boss’s boss’s corporation’s CFO and CEO I hate.