Till is a friend of a friend. We met when I stumbled into Berlin one November long ago. I visited with him twice after that, but haven't seen or corresponded with him in years.
He's a genius artist, and I could write many paragraphs about him, but not now.
The reason I bring him up is that I wrote to him around five years long ago about a memory that had resurfaced: the one of the evening I met him. We sat in a restaurant caddy-corner and, in the middle of the conversation, he told me his brother had died. The reason that memory came alive, I wrote him, was that Alex was dying.
He called a few days later, as if he'd just read my letter moments before.
To the right is a picture of the street on which he lives; I wonder if it still looks like this.
He's a genius artist, and I could write many paragraphs about him, but not now.
The reason I bring him up is that I wrote to him around five years long ago about a memory that had resurfaced: the one of the evening I met him. We sat in a restaurant caddy-corner and, in the middle of the conversation, he told me his brother had died. The reason that memory came alive, I wrote him, was that Alex was dying.
He called a few days later, as if he'd just read my letter moments before.
it still looks like this!
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