some other kind of person looking out west from the corner of prince and mcdougal

i once knew some kind of person. not the garden variety. someone who always failed to be there but did it in an engaging, borderline spectacular manner. he drew pictures with words, images that hid much more than they showed. shadows of pictures of words of thoughts of, one hopes, things. one hoped at their own risk. he was an agent of sensual poverty, at least as far as giving was concerned. he spoke in outbursts, short sentences, almost no adverbs and dubious punctuation. he also listened and was expert at keeping quiet. numerous sunsets fell over the subsets of sub-divisions of quasi-experiences he seemed to be having. no moon was ever full and neither was any glass. he carried many russian dolls inside many other russian dolls. he was some kind of friend to some and some kind of lover to some and some kind of husband to some and some kind of father to others. the only proof he ever existed is that sometimes, very rarely, the picture of him disturbs the mind, hiding much more than it shows.