Neil Gaiman walks the streets of London with purpose and a certain dark and noble style. He avoids the busiest roads (Oxford Street is crazy this time of day), sticking mostly to the smaller city streets where one might find intimate tailor shops, or unknown pubs.

His eyes search.

As he walks, the even smaller streets and alleys call out to him. His eyes shift from one to the next, but he rarely slows or turns his neck. If the look is right, he might slow down or even stop, letting his mind sort through potentialities and scenarios associated with the scene. A tall man moves, unseen, down the alley and in through an unmarked door. An old woman smiles as she recalls an event from her past. A creature that appears human (but is not) slowly pours out of a poster on a boarded up window. Imagination is a wonderful thing, wonderful and terrible when under the power of a child, or of a writer like Neil Gaiman.

London's alleys have names, typically. I recall navigating one short footpath between two streets in Ealing Broadway, with the unusual name of Barnes' Pikle. It might have been more surprising if I'd been carrying a pickle, but as it happens, instead, I was in the company of a man named Barnes. Such are the ways of this city.

Mr. Gaiman's eyes catch these alleys, and their names, filing them away in his head for future reference. Sometimes he will stop and take a picture with his phone. Sometimes, something similar to one of them, though not exactly the same, will appear in one of his works.

Neil Gaiman does not live in London, and has not done so in a long while, but he does frequent it when he can, and he enjoys walking its endless streets and alleys. He has become quite famous, and so he must don a semblance of a disguise whenever he goes out during the day. It is a nuisance he has been forced to get used to if he wishes to maintain his privacy.

He continues down the street, down several, almost getting lost, and eventually finds his way back to the small hotel he is staying in. His sharp mind churns with possibilities.

Up in his room, he calls his wife in America. It is early afternoon there. His wife is famous in her own right, a singer and performance artist, very avant-garde, very... out there. He loves her dearly. Because of their jobs, and their respective success in them both, they each tend to travel quite a lot. He calls her daily when one or both of them are on the road, or she calls him. It is an anchor, that call, in a squall made up of new places and faces and endless waiting, a storm that is both familiar and different every day.

He hangs up, and his smile fades.

Neil Gaiman earned his fame way back when, after the Sandman graphic novel gained popularity around the world. Gaiman's talent became more apparent after he wrote several novels and short works, most of which were arguably in the indistinct realm somewhere between horror and modern fantasy. His characters are unique, though not always likable. But they have always been interesting. He must always make them interesting.

His fame was multiplied when one of his most acclaimed works, American Gods, a novel involving gods like Odin living in present day America, was turned into a major online and TV series. Works like this make us wonder what is really around the next corner, sometimes.

Mr. Gaiman seems like a gregarious and genuinely nice person. It's hard to imagine how such dark thoughts -- such twisted situations and indefinably fascinating characters -- come out of his head.

Later, much later, Neil Gaiman ghosts out the back door of his small hotel. He is unrecognizable, having tied up his turbulent hair and pushed it under a cap; and something else, something with his face. His nose looks different, somehow, and his eyes. And he is shorter and stockier. It is as if Mr. Vandemar has become Mr. Croup. It is not clear, not clear at all, how he has accomplished this.

As he walks, non-Neil Gaiman mutters to himself, his hands in the pockets of his now oversized overcoat. One would have to be very close to him, very close indeed, to hear what his whispers say. They say things like "Jack, we're too close. Must go farther, farther, farther yet," or "No Jack, too old. Keep looking." The fingers of his left hand toy with something in there. Polished bone and cold stainless. He must be careful, lest it open and he find his hand with a clean but surgically sharp cut.

He must be very careful. The darkness encloses him, but light can appear anywhere, these days.