Itan allowed the growing crowd to suck him in. Each crease on his forehead, each dust-layered pore, each gray follicle of hair stored a memory of things seen that cannot be un-seen, lives lived that cannot be un-lived…He was a vast depository of memory, like the sea-held fish that eyes would never see; like the shore-harbored sand that could not be numbered…He was the rain touching leaves and skin in the most secret of places… He was the transporter, the physical wheels of intangible culture, the custodian of stories...