Realizing he had only months to live, he quickly wrote his autobiography--in the third person as a thinly-cloaked and humorous novel.

Flipping on a small lamp, she scrounged through the dusty cubbyholes, discarding pens, note cards, thimbles and rubber bands until she found the scrap of paper she'd been looking for, a tattered piece of newspaper.

As soon as he met her, he took to her.

She felt alone and lost in that splendid city, so full of history and beauty.

So he sat and wondered and ate.