I thought he was some sort of monster when I first met him. For I had been at the seaside, and I had seen him emerge from the sea, and he said to me, "I am wandering and wandering, looking for a place where I can quietly grieve and wait to die," and I said, "Denver is the place where they return to and arrive to with broken dreams and broken hearts," and he said, "I shall return and return and return," and I knew now he was not a monster, but was returning to the soil where he had gotten his start, to grieve and wait to die, sullen, with a closed mouth. For he had gone out into the world with optimism and passion, and had come back brokenhearted and broken-minded, and so he would return to the place where he had gotten his start, and there patiently await death and oblivion (and oblivion is sweet). He looked like a monster, but he was not a monster. He looked like a millipede or nest of cockroaches, but his days of thriving like thriving insects were over. So he quietly pulled me aside and said, "Look at me. Thou art that, a thoroughly disgusting thing," and I was no longer horrified at him, but drawn to him, and drawn to all in Denver like him.