Miles will not write any more. He was a great writer. His creativity and intelligence manifested themselves in his writing. He had a strong voice and he was getting better at expressing it.
In seventh grade he tested as a college level reader. He read a lot. I looked at the books on his shelf. He was struggling through Ulysses. For Christmas, he got a few books about David Lynch. He read all my books my Murakami and Endo. He read all my Burroughs and he had horded all my Allen Ginsberg. He read many books on his own. He bought a lot of books about photography and about photographers. He was always carrying a book.
I miss that Miles will not write. He wrote to himself. He wrote to friends. He kept journals. I read a few of his papers fron school before he handed them in, and we were able to talk in depth about both his arguments and how to best express them. I gave him feedback on the subtleties of writing. It was easy to talk to him about writing. He understood and he changed how he wrote so he could write more effectively. I always enjoyed reading what he wrote because he thought deeply about his beliefs and ideas and he expressed them beautifully.
I intend to look through his journals some day, but I cannot do it yet. I want to discover what he thought and expressed and the art he explored to make it manifest in words. It is a lot of work to do, and I look forward to it because it won’t feel like work, though it will always be an effort.