A novel writer with no words, thats all he was. Simple minded and completely silent. He had so many things to say, to scream. But no courage. He couldn’t. To write it down is to make it real, and he didn’t want reality. He wanted calm. He wanted peace, silence, a painless existence. He spent hours thinking about the life he could have, he thought over every detail mercilessly for hours. Though he tried to tell the world, they did not listen, he was just a town crier. Seldom heard. Though he meant everything. Him and his muddled, cloudy mind. They meant everything to me. His heart winning races at record time, his problems building to the peak. He always smiled, though his mind was too cynical to let it be that way. He was so afraid to act his age. Though he meant everything to me. he did everything for himself, all the things I couldn’t do for him. He was everything to someone like me.