Like a vortex sucked into the mire, I feel tremendous empathy for the odd man out, even the even one. There is little I can do as anything I would do would draw further unwanted and unwarranted attention. Even broaching the subject, like a nightmare made of silk pyjamas, is fraught with a minefield of quixotic Humorisms. I'd stretch clockwise if I could, barrel a bowl of Fruitloops leftwards if it would help and would plant a tree and watch it grow if it solved the equation. A one-quarter turn portrait may be all that remains. Often, time presents itself as a solution, but I am not certain it does in this case. If anything, time may portend afoul.