There was no aggression in him, then. The way he dressed and moved, he looked like a dangerous Prada castaway, and you would think he might try to take your cash at any moment. Really he was as solid as earth, if he knew you. The look was a part to play, a meshing of movies and future-dreams and Freudian echoes, something to do between nights out yelling, spinning, taking any and all pills on the horizon, eyes beamed in to very, very distant and specific points of light, moving, fingers or jaw or bouncing leg, moving like a pipe about to burst. He spoke to me the way he spoke to everyone, joking, with no concern at all about meaning, only the sound of the words rolling out into the room, soaking into memories like smoke into the walls.

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