"Sometimes the love and the longing are great songs that fill the hollow spaces of the night, and the mournful echo is too much for me," he said as he shuffled on, into the dark.
I don't know what he loves. I don't know why he loves. And yet in his drunken disheveled manner, he has a quiet dignity, and his love - unrequited by most - stands firm. He is a fool, a sinner, and a wastrel.
Don't ever lend him money, and whatever you do, never NEVER let him sleep on your couch for "just one night". It took us months to get him to leave.
But occasionally - especially at night - his eyes carry a quiet gravity, a solid dignity that endures.
He is a joke in so many ways (and his poetry is not so good) - but he has done one thing, rightly or wrongly. He has loved.
And the poet moves on.
He picks up his guitar, and he strides, somehow with dignity, into the night. A rag tag, foolish figure, walking with unruffled dignity, into the night.