He lives alone in a small apartment above a shop in turn of the century London. He is regimented in his routines. Morning: wake, open the two curtains in his studio overlooking the streets outside the cobbler's shop downstairs, look at the sky, ascertain the weather for the day, dress, woolen pants, linen shirt, tea, quiet, solitude. He has no friends, no family, his mother is dead, his father died in the war, he had a sister who died young, he does not remember her. His studio is cluttered, but comfortably so, a worn arm chair, dark wood everywhere, a portrait of his mother, jars of things, specimens, flower vases, he likes the look of them, appreciates their design, but he does not put flowers in them. He eats toast for breakfast, just butter, no jam. He puts on an overcoat, he walks with a bamboo cane, not that he needs it, and not that it's for looks, he is not vain, he just feels more comfortable with it than without. He might be old, but he may always have been old. He goes for a walk, down the stairs, out the door, nodding at the cobbler, but never saying hello. He observes, he likes looking and knowing, but stays separate, he just an observer here, an objective observer. He disappears somewhere along the river, and stays disappeared until nightfall. He returns home, and tends to his collections by kerosene lamp light. He is diligent, patient, methodical. He is quiet, he affects this world only a little, like the fluttering of a moth's wing. We are not even sure that he was there at all.