He rarely left his room, drinking throughout the night. Yet he would be cold sober and sharp during the day, reading relentlessly and listening to Led Zeppelin on his gramophone. He would smile and say that he would leave his books to me. I cherish the beautiful ramblings of his poetry and prose he scribbled on loose sheets of paper, now yellowed and frayed, but the fountain pen ink, surprisingly, still not faded. As if his blood still flows brightly and restlessly in the words.