“Cold, isn’t it?” I said. Then a conversation ensued.   Michael was his name.  He was a writer, a poet and a creative.  He wrote poems from crossword words.  He had written a lot.  Homemade books upon books that he created using his computer.  He worked with his hands, did odd jobs or designed spaces and things for larger corporations, like Target, for money.  He did just enough to feed his love for writing, spoken word and travel.  He spoke of his travels, of his youth.

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