he wrote

to me about michelangelo. the loveliest things would slip from his mind onto the keyboard, onto paper, onto the pavement. anywhere. he was like a bit of energy that would leave a glowing trail of himself everywhere he went. he would glow everywhere he went, but it wasn't the sort of lightness you could recognize. you had to look for it. you had to really see him. he was an unconventional bit, radiating unbeknownst to himself. beautiful things are like that: unaware of how wonderful they are. and that's how he was, unconventionally everything and unaware.

and he wrote to me about michelangelo, but not how we were similar, but rather how he connected both myself and the artist. i wanted to keep every moment in a jar. the whole time was like trying to keep sand from falling between my fingers, but being too drawn to the faintest of sparkling it made when it moved from my hands back to the ground. he was like the sand itself, i guess. he belonged everywhere.