"When I first came to serve Mr. Arthur Worthy, I had almost completely withdrawn from the quotidian world of appointments, commerce, even personal interaction. To tell more of the truth, I was living in the woods, inadequately sheltered by a tarpaulin—a stale, army-surplus sheet, perforated with pinholes and rudely draped into the equivalent of a teepee. I held no job, had abandoned the idea of a career, had no proximate family, and had no possessions except my bike, a backpack, a diary (this diary), and a few odd objects that I had gathered solely because I liked them—objects that I would keep in my pockets until they became overly bulgy and made it difficult for me to pedal. Just to help locate me within the galaxy of currently identified human types, I could be called a homeless person. Yet, I prefer to think of myself in terms of things I have, rather than in terms of things I don't. I have, after all, my life, my soul, my thoughts, my memories, my hopes and theories, as well as my bike, which is better than a home to me, and just as dear."