He was both intimate and esoteric.
He lived a sketch of parallel lines.
A march, never made without a partner.
A violin, never played solo.
The smell of wet, and drying concrete.
The feel of deserts churned by a transient sea.
Shrivelling pairs of papaya seeds on tissue paper.
Breeding pastel budgies with binary names.
His life, balanced like a throwing knife.
His death, cut down the middle.