It's Saturday afternoon in Seacliff, San Francisco. The Barbour home mellowed by the years is etched sharp against a blue sky. The sun is shining, but occasional angry gusts of wind lash the branches of the trees up against the house. The sun is without warmth, as the dark days of winter are at hand. If one is in the mood to be lonely, this is the day for it. In his studio, Paul sits alone, staring out to the slate colored, restless day.