The young man looked at Desmond Paul, at his face, an expression grave and elsewhere, his eyes tense and electric. Paul walked with his head down, bent slightly forward, one hand stuffed tightly into a trouser pocket and the other clutching his notebook. This is the most intense human being I have ever met, the young man thought, and walked alongside him, following him and not, past another set of large lobby windows looking out upon the rote morning ascent toward noon, windows looking inward toward nothing familiar at once save the careful arrangement of mystery inside us all.
