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He sits, that’s what he does. Grey bread long around his knees, sitting on a bench maybe, or on the grass, looking intently at a flower. People walk by, looking at him, and mother turn their children’s faces from him as if they are looking upon the beast itself. The man sits on the grass or on the bench but where he sits makes no difference, grass or bench he will be happy sitting outside, looking around at the trees and sky and clouds, wandering lonely in his mind. He speaks often, and often to himself, of place only he has seen. No one listens, because no one can place these places on a map. They can’t stick pin in these places, in his dreams, try as they might. He sits, considering a ring of daisies in the grass. People look for a bottle in his hand. They look very discreetly at his arms for sign of abuse. But there is none, and they assume that he is insane to see these places. And yet he may buy a bottle of milk with another man without raising eyebrows, he can walk the walk and talk the talk of the people, and yet always there are amethyst skies and dancing maidens on the breeze of his mind. He knows no one can see him, and he knows they see someone they want to see, and in this he is happy, because he is old. One day long ago he shot an albatross, and he has been in exile ever since. But the travels of his exile have taken him to places no one will visit.