A homeless man came up to me, through a leg upon the large, concrete block I was sitting on, looked at me with permanent shiftless eyes, rested elbow to his knee and looked at me. “Can I help you,” I asked, not in a polite way or the way I do when interviewing some of the fellas that I have befriended interviewing in Devil’s Triangle. “I dunno know,” he replied and looked as if trying to look through me. I looked down, jotted something of no substance, agitated by his aggressive approach. There was something about it that made me feel vulnerable or wanting to defend myself initially. “Why do you write?” I don’t even remember my reply. “Is your mind clear?” I hesitated to answer, to which he said, “Too long to answer!” and “I used to write, in the past. Before this life. Now, I think it’s bullshit” and he smiled and laughed. “Cubans are crazy!” Neither agreeing or disagreeing but smiling, I asked, “Is your mind clear?” “Yes.” “That person walking by, with his friend, what do you think he is thinking about? What’s going on his mind?” He replied, “I dunno.” “He’s thinking about life, the world, acquiring things, false happiness, women, work and all the things external to his own self content,” I said. He looked at me. “That’s why I write.” He shook my hand, hugged me and I rode my bike through town.