He looked so lost. So lost, I wished to take his hand and pull him close to me. Me, I wished to hold him close and whisper.Whisper words of comfort. Comfort on those cold lonely nights. Lonely nights that were made lonelier by the twinkle of the street lights and the brightly lighted windows and the gay voices echoing from inside and rebounding from the street corners. The street corners where he sat alone and friendless and broken and clayed. Clayed hands and feet melting in the rain that has been falling relentlessly. Relentlessly walking all day long for a scrap of food. Food for thought. For thought and inspiration formed the basis of his life. Life that is lived solely on the power of imagination. Imagination for his food, for his clothes, to suffice for a touch, stand in for a companion and pen for his writings. His writings that seem so disconnected actually strike a deeper chord. A chord that resonates when the note of longing is struck. Struck I am by the look in his eyes when he sings them out loud. Loud certainly is the bell that tolls inside my heart. My heart which is bleeding due to his tears. Tears unseen. Unseen, yet loud and overflowing.

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