So there was his character, Jaspar the Crow. The writer felt him in his blood, in his muscles that spread wings. He felt he could fly. He was fascinated by the jive-ass walk. It told tomes. The writer typed:

Jaspar walked the night streets of his town. A thin trail of cigar smoke reached out, curled on store windows, tapped on doors. Faces would hide and then peer up and watch him after he'd passed. Jaspar was one cool dude.