He had black curly hair, thick hipster frames to match with thin lenses, and a nervous twitch as if a bass drum needed to be boomed. He had an Asian lover; perhaps he aspired to be like Lennon. His fashion was khaki-based, surely for comfort and not image.
He wrote like me, deep in thought most of the time with only a break to sip or nap. His journal contained drawings of shapes that accompanied his words. The man was a puzzle–or at least he pretended to be.