"Good sense is the master of human life," I read aloud from the curled slip of paper while crumbling the moist cookie in my left hand. With a sudden anxiety, I turned my head back to make sure I wasn't being watched, but the clientele of that factory-made Pan-Asian joint were all reading the instructions of their chopstick packages. Shoving the paper into the third of my nine pockets, I paid for my meal and an eight-percent tip in Sacajaweas, and removed myself from the room with characteristic stealth.