Its 5am. My room is shrouded in darkness, but the light of my humming laptop shines like a mirror in the desert. It is within this deserted hour, free from judgmental glances and insurmountable expectations, trapped with my rapid fire thoughts and rampant feelings, that my mind is most vivid. This is also the hour when the mask that Paul Lawrence Dunbar and I still share comes off. When I take it off, tear wells began to swell. Then a great flood came washing away Trayvon and Ramarley and Danroy and Duane and Gene and Jasmine and Elizabeth and all the people whose bodies have been claimed momentarily and forever through persistent profiling.