the story of Henry.

He always ate lunch alone, not because he was ostracized (those poor pigeons--), but because he knew his mind would proffer him much better company than anybird ever could; indeed, Henry possessed a profound intelligence that had such a presence as to feel like a soul all its own. As he grew older, he found he liked to sit outside the New York Public Library and simply observe. This gave him much joy--to watch the humans, and also to be so close to all the knowledge the world contained. The sad thing would be to mistake Henry as lonely, because he had never been;

although


occasionally


he broke out in awkward spasms.


We're not all perfect.