He's a beautiful bloke. very stylish. Sitting in a caf like a character from an existentialist french novel.
he was bravely right in goldsmiths territory. i looked very art studenty in that moment; long hair, guitar on my back, cardigan. i smiled at him, but he looked trepidatious. maybe he frightened i was antifa. maybe it was just creepy that a stranger's was grinning at him knowingly.
Let him have happy delusions, which occasion no lashing out, no shin-kicking, no bizarrely aggressive emails. Let him serenely believe he is the reincarnation of hermes trismegestus, and let luka patiently allow him this fantasy even though he knows that he, luka, alone is the reincarnation of hermes trismegestus. Let him be sagely idiot, smiling benevolently upon life, even upon Goldsmiths and all the teeming venality of the art world which once angered him so. Let him be comforted by women, but never again so morbidly indulged by them. Let him write poems that please him even if they are read by no-one, simple expressions of bemused happiness at the carnival of existence. Let him be reconciled to his parents' love, and pass smiling into harmless old age, a rakish American gent whom nobody very much minds.