He stared at the fence. He gripped it tight between his fingers that were as dry as could be. He viewed a parade. He viewed a collage. He witnessed them walk and strut with confidence back from lunch. He carried his book under his arm and arched his head against the weight of the fence. He was a true witness to the outside world. He was a true listener. She was an emotion he liked to describe himself as having. He liked to describe himself as her fix. What a crowning achievement he thought it was to be. What it was to be an artistic composition of materials and objects pasted over a surface. With unifying lines and color. He took it in deep.