There is an older man that I dream of. He has kind eyes and laugh lines. Slightly unkempt whiskers rim a half smile. He is attentive yet withdrawn. A watcher. His gait is steady and unrushed; he is bound to the whim which spurs his soul. His presence is subtle but rarely escapes notice. He smirks silently as he walks through memories without motion. His words, while few, are deliberate. His touch, while gentle, is firm. He is a friend to many and a companion to few; a lover to fewer still. To strangers he seems somber. And in some ways he is. For he has tempered his love for solitude; at a cost he may never know. Eyes closed, he bows his head and I am awake.