A long time ago, in a galaxy called college, I knew a writer with so much talent the stuff practically dripped off him. He churned out more innovative stories than most commercially viable authors. Some of his work was rough around the edges; to him revisions were the enemy of creativity. But even for first or second drafts, the prose was very good.

Years passed, everyone graduated and went their separate ways. Recently he popped back on the radar screen. A mutual friend clued me onto the location of his new digs; a small room that backed onto an abandoned church. The door will be open, he told me.

I found his appearance was the same, rumpled and dirty around the edges. His clothing was still Gap closeout meets Salvation Army. Reeking of cheap cigarettes, he had trouble holding a cup of coffee steady, spilling half of it on the table and chair. He hadn’t changed.

What had changed was his demeanor. The black eye, he assured me, was just a misunderstanding over a girl and some money. He looked tired and burnt out. There was a sadness about him that there wasn’t before.

I’m not certain what he’s mixed up in now, or what kind of hell he’s been through all these years. What I am sure of, is that once he had a lot of talent and these days he sleeps alone in a church.