A listener, this one; you can tell by his ears. Quiet, calm, reserved. He wears a white sport coat, and a pink crustacean. Fools to the left of him, jokers to the right, here he is: stuck in the middle, with you. He is here and there, doing everything and nothing, and for better or worse is more or less torn. Reading volumes, remembering snippets, and understanding everything, or nothing. Doodling cute little characters in the margins of notebooks, on the backs of sketchbooks; a printmaker, a programmer, a closet philosopher, a might-be writer- perhaps even a poet- occasionally a rather good mimic. He sounds a trifle Southern, and writes in antique modes with nib pens and inkwells. If he is staring off into the middle distance, it is in search of something delicate.