Gaius shaves in the head, praying nobody punctures or stabs or slices his neck this time. The image originally was to have Six shaving him, but given the scene as a whole that's not going to work. So instead she perches. Also perching: Kara, on a toilet, with the stall door open, watching him shave. Apparently dying makes you tacky. No, actually, I take that back: it's the most Starbuck thing she's done in months. She grins at him in the mirror and very pointedly pisses. Gaius is, of course, appalled, and tries to ignore her. She asks if he even believes the "bilge" he was spewing on the radio before, about the angels: tellingly, she phrases it "The angels that bring out our better nature, blah, blah, blah."

Because as much as this episode is about the concept of home -- Laura's off-tone speech rapidly making subtext into text as clumsily as possible -- it's also about finishing the equation Sartre and Milton started: not "hell is other people," not "myself am hell," but something much better. Home is other people. Home is letting go of the place you only thought you were standing; the place you thought was home. And it takes the heaven of everybody else to get you there. (The shepherd Bodhisattva vows not to enter paradise until everybody else does first; the trick is that you then obviously have to go about making sure that happens. I submit to you that's precisely what we're doing and we don't even know it -- this is also my explanation for Gaius Baltar's amazing ability to duck enlightenment, if not redemption -- but imagine a whole world like that. It would be like Canada, but with God. How awesome.)

Lee leads Kara, Kara leads Sam. He thinks he's talking about Six, but it's Caprica that leads Gaius. And then Gaius leads Kara, too. Laura leads Bill, Bill leads Saul. Hera is Boomer's angel. Daughter Eight is Saul's, and Ellen too, toward something we can't yet see. All of them looking -- and helping each other to look -- for strength, and for wisdom, and that measure of acceptance that moves you into the next thing, the next shape, the next home. Pilgrims of mortality, they'll say at the funeral, and voyagers traversing the stars, in search of grace, unity, life, love: No man is islanded.