Monday, April 14, 2003

He is sure that I am a writer in the making. He knows that all of it is raw material. Skeletons, secrets, souls, et al.
He runs everyday. And reads like his life depended on it. And never gives anything away.
Brings light into the room. Waxes eloquent on Genghis Khan and the tenets of Hinduism. And lives a life I haven't been part of in years. But dances on the permanent periphery of my intellect.
Chapter I. All names fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead, purely intentional.

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