An American poet once lived here.

You can still see burn marks where he burned candles down to the floor trying to capture the visions of his mind on paper before they passed away.

On counter tops there are odd verses written in ferver, as if he first searched for paper when inspiration hit, but had to settle for transcribing his thoughts on whatever would accept the ink from his quill.

I love this place.

It inspires me.

The poet passed his body by, and I wish he hadn't.

He had such a way of putting things, giving strange thoughts familiar form.

I miss you brother.

All I have left are your words, your drawings and this little shack you called a home.

How could I ever leave this place?

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