Early one morning, I had a dream about my friend Tim Williams who died far too young at the cradle-esque age of 31. My beloved said the dream was like a visitation.On my drive home, I thought, he did not have time to become. The sensitivity and beauty of a poetess Anne Sexton, the vision of a Frank Lloyd Wright, the quirky genius of Miles Davis, and the imagination and aspirations of a Howard Roark... We all got gypped. All over again, that morning, his short life and sudden death hit me like what I imagine a truck- bed full of granite would feel like...
