He flicked through his collection.
Emilio de Silva
His photo was nearly the same in all of them. The dates of birth varied, as did the places of birth. The nationalities of the passports varied too.
It didn´t matter. For when he woke up in the morning he could pull out that ID, that piece of paper and wear that body for the day. He would adopt their mannerisms, their history, their character. He would wear their clothes, choose those friends and
inhabit that energy.
He fitted in wherever he went. He blended in like a master chameleon, he was more of the place than those who´d lived there forever. He knew the cities, the pathways with their labyrynthine passageways and grand avenues.
In the countryside, his brain had mapped the terrain with it´s rivets and goat tracks, knowing the strands of roads in that spiders web.
He was a cosmic glutton. He would eat not just the food, but the culture, the landscapes, the energies and people. He would lap it all up and lick his lips. Some of it was delicious and nutritious. Some of it was fetid and rotten and made him ill and puke.
But when he recovered he would go again. He would cover old ground, admiring it with ever greater detail and precision. He would look at the worms in the soil in the grass, to the trunk of the trees to the branches to the twigs, to the purple aura of the living wood. Then the sky. The blue tinted bubble that seperated him and his species from the dimension from whence they came.
The man with many passports had a lonely existence. But he could be anyone he could invent. And knowing that, he was never alone.