The room is packed with versions of the man running here and there, talking to himself about this and that, making plans on the phone and staring out the window and falling in love and falling out of love and finding himself loved and unloved and hated and feared and liked and disliked and ignored and unknown and known.

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"I fell in love with her things in the window of a shop called Absinthe, " he recalls.

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But that day I saw her from the window of the bus, I almost yelped aloud -- not just with worry, with love.

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