Willsin Rowe falls in love with a scent, a playful expression or an act of casual intimacy more easily than with physical beauty. When confronted by both he is a lost cause. He has done many things over and over. He has done even more things only once. He has half-done more things than he cares to admit. He visited Europe with the aching need to see Scotland, and succumbed to the clichs when he fell in love with Paris instead. He doesnt yet know if he can ski, speak Italian or keep calm in a life-threatening situation, but he has his suspicions. He plays bass in a swampy blues band. He loves to sing and doesnt let his voice get in the way. Since he became a parent the crises of employment have paled. He commutes to and from work on a motorbike. When he rides he is a lone wolf, a hunter. He is primeval, and for twenty minutes at a time, he is in control of his destiny. He loves the complications of English and the naturistic charm that results. He fears that streamlining it allows function to usurp form. Nature is beautiful without adherence to symmetry or consistency. He is intelligent but not sensible. He is polite but inappropriate. He is passionate but fearful. He is honest but reticent. He is not scruffy enough or stylish enough to be cool.