In line at the post office, again at the library, he told me who he was. Name, of course, which his father had kindly given him, but most important was his secret identity. How it feels to have one.
Tragic if he died with his research incomplete! Some mornings he made no progress at all, but sold a few books, ate a sandwich.
Afternoons he resumed his pursuit of the perfect sponge, dense and damp by nature. Without that, one could clean nothing well.
“The mind,” he tapped his temple. Language is too crude a tool, like a crowbar or sledgehammer or a two-man crosscut saw. “What I’m thinking!” he said. “If only I could tell you!” Gently, I took his hand off my arm.
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