I saw a dead man last Friday night. He was lying flat on the road beside his motorcycle. His helmet, which had apparently done nothing to protect his skull from being crushed, was lying a few feet away from him. Traffic had slowed as a result of the accident, and as the cab I was on slowly snaked around the scene of his death, the cab driver and I were able to get a good view of what was left of his head. The cab driver grimaced at the sight, while I shivered with the coldness of how sudden, impersonal and final death can be. Just a few minutes ago, the man and his female companion, I would later read , were navigating C-5, on their way home, I suppose, like many of the commuters on the road with them. While I was rushing to the elevator, mindful that my mother had been waiting at Starbucks Emerald for over an hour already, he was alive, on the road, navigating yet another round of Friday night traffic. Was he stressed like I was? Did he have a difficult day at work? Was he able to rel