He was briefly in our English Literature class. He attended for less than a term, leaving not long after an exercise in creative writing; the only piece I remember was his.
I am left with an impression only, of the rest of the class being somehow a condescending audience to his reading. He was by no means the least intelligent. It was a straightforward conceit: a report of a dream.
Arrows were raining down on him. He was being killed. A shower of arrows puncturing his body. This comes to me now as a scratchy yet sophisticated drawing, where each arrow curves a little to show its flight. And the colours are like age-stained parchment and any black, when scrutinised, is actually the darkest red.
Then he left the class, school ended and he did well. Sales was his thing. I saw a Youtube clip of him giving motivational speeches: absolutely believing himself for the camera, for the audience.
His arrows chase me.