He does not smoke in libraries.
He falls headfirst from a ladder.
He cuts off his fingers with a bandsaw.
He waits patiently for the light to change before he crosses.
Does he have a passion for single-malt Scotch?
Does he blush when he farts silently?
Does he write picky letters to the editor?
Would he recognize an old love twenty years later?
He is everywhere, but reveals so little of his burning soul.