It was in a pale brown folder of about twenty-five pages, typed usinga typewriter, with handwritten corrections. It was all about changes, transformations, metamorphoses which the person writing, David was his name, had tracked across texts by a poet he loved. And it showed the changes David had undergone, his diversity and otherness, his generosity, bolshiness, playfulness, and fidelity. A man of many gifts who was cruelly stolen away by a brain tumour at the age of 22. I often think of him and remember him dearly, and his daughter whom he never met, bearing a name that was not his, and living far away in a country that no longer exists. The sadness remains, and the joyful memories.