I am the unluckiest man in the world. Discriminated against since birth. Discriminated against because of an accident of birth. When all others have been emancipated, I remain a slave. When others rest their limbs, I still toil. While they slice open the fruits of their labour and let the sugary juices stain their chins, I stand naked and thirsty inside the riches used as legacy never knew how. I was born to a family of shadows. Deprived of initiative, I copy what is nearest. Yet still I scare them, easily frightened as they are. I heard that in Hiroshima all that was left of those vaporised near the blast was their radiated shadows on the concrete where they last stood. And one of those shadows remains. Impossible to cleanse, impossible to change.