he has not made his home among them. Their customs are not his, and, though he moves among them, it is without ease, or purpose. He is not one of their people. He lodges, alone and unencumbered, and though the space is structured, he sees in the order other walls, different dimensions. Old furniture, pictures and magasines carry around them extra relationships, unseen familiarities. He has no place in their city. Although he knows names and gestures, his conversations are depthless, polite. His laughter is measured. He shares his evenings, his mornings, without communion. No man sees the hair on his belly. No woman hears his uninterrupted pulse. Among them, he is alien: elsewhere would his journey imply a return.