He goes to work at six and drinks his coffee black.  Flavor plays a role in this man’s life as much as trees play a role to fish.  Tributaries of loneliness and depression flow into the river that is his life; and his river flows into a deep sea of sorrow.  Dead to himself, John sips his bitter breakfast as he checks the morning emails.  One stands out among the rest from sender Happy the Clown.  He blankly stares at it until he finally wakes from his surprised stupor and clicks it.  Children yelling--loud whistles--people shouting with joy and happiness about what appears to be nothing.  Finally, Happy the Clown pops on the screen with a Grand Canyon smile, wild yellow hair and a nose that Rudolph would envy.  This was too much.  John never got out of his chair that day.  He died—eyes glued to the screen—forever listening to the joyous cries of children—forever staring at the dancing clown of death.