There was something about a certain man that almost everyone could see, some quite quickly, some by-and-by. Animals saw this something immediately, especially dogs. They would come to the man, befriend the man, follow the man, sit with the man. They would enter the man’s house and sleep at his feet because they belonged, and because the man belonged. Some people, upon seeing, felt pressed to touch, driven by an urgent must. I must take his hand before it’s too late. For what? This they knew, and yet knew not. There were others who would shrink away, strangely repelled, though there was nothing at all fearsome about the man. What was fearful was that certain something about the man who had something about him that almost everyone could see. Some were filled with a kindred love, instant, pure; some with pity; some with denial; some with the sort of hope that needed nothing more than hope. And regarding the man himself? No, there was nothing special, nothing heroic, nothing particularly notable about the man - except for that something, which itself had only arrived with the dusk, lit by the setting sun alone. That is the time when shadows are long, and when what is far away seems most near.