River St. holds no secrets from me. I know the habits and schedules of all the district's cats, humans and other, less interesting animals, while I remain unknown to them. From the vantage point of view of my 3rd floor apartment's window, I've witnessed all their battles, struggles and matings, for more than ten winters I watched their stories unfold. My own story is much less eventful, but I don't regret that - I've always found myself more predisposed to my quiet life of scholarship and intraspec-shyn. It's amusing, how one's human companions with time grow to reflect one's personality: after so many years spent together I can almost call my friend Vincent as studious and learned as myself. A quiet man, whose black hair started turning grey several moons ago, he spends most of his time reading or writing: as a youngster I enjoyed playing with his notes scattered on every flat surface. Sometimes he joins me at the window in my observations of the world outside, and then he tells me stories of lands far away, times long past or of knowledge hidden within the thick tomes lining his shelves. All this time he seems to be waiting for something - but he never revealed to me the object of this longing.