"Write your story on your hand, so he would touch you," he said, with a grin and a memory.
He was free to be any person at an instant second, and every feeling was consumed, his fears injured and numb, his love aroused, and all that he could set his conscious upon.
His name was Meena. He doubted every person, every belief, and every religion. Only roads represented home - thirteen blocks to the left, Fifth Street, building number 17 - but walls? They were his covers; his white sheets. They rather protect his bare body than be his sanctuary or safe place.
"I'm a city boy," he continued smiling.
"I make love to secrets; memories, fears and lost joy. One day I'll see my own, and won't crave for them. But sometimes I wonder if I too whisper ones before sleep."
"One morning, someone left me flowers, with a card saying I know you."
Meena told me many stories of incomplete love; two hearts broken by society, a lifetime of secrets, a sick man that died alone. We talked until he got a phone call and had to go, leaving his stories and absence.
He ended saying: "We all make our own world to fit in this world, and there are people who connect with human secrets and desires; indulge in sacred beauty, and some like rolling stones; they move on."