Where's wally?

Everywhere he went, a crowd followed. Colours morphed around him. Red and white; they were his camouflage. No one notices him as he glides through the middle of a crowded street; no one feels him, no one hears him, no one sees him. He spans the ages, waltzing through history as naturally as breathing is to us. His glasses shine as he basks in the sun; they glisten in the rain. Tonight he starts the countdown; he goes to death. He shudders under the freezing wind. It’s an act; it’s all an act. He didn’t get cold anymore. His jumper stood out against the grey sky. Red and white. But not for long; soon the sun came up, to aid in keeping him invisible. He reaches the cliff face and begins to climb. The wind is picking up now, as he scales the wall, his hat is blown off, lost, for others to find. He has made it to the top. He breathes in a lungful of air, all an act; he doesn’t breathe anymore, and he jumps. He hits the grounds with an inaudible thud. He hit the ground, so why was there no sound. He sees his body through his hands. His body is dead, never found, the world changes around it, disguises it, while his soul wanders the world forever. He’s a ghost, just a ghost. Where’s Wally?