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Every morning he walked the few steps from his front lawn to the wide expanse of park in front of his house. Long ago he had chosen this house for the park, figuring that he would always have something to watch. You see he was not content unless he had his eyes out, searching for something, then finally sticking to it and holding it close. Even when he dreamed his eyes behaved like this. In the midst of fog or confusing shapes or whirling colors, his eyes would find something and stay there, and when he woke up he would remember just one image down to every minute detail - the folds of greyish pink on the elephant's trunk, the rippled, grained glass of the building he was to fall off of, the sunset glow of the poker he prodded into the fire in a strange house on a strange day.

Every morning he sat on the same bench. It was stone, flecked with shiny pieces that looked like silver.