He was not the center of the universe. He was merely a poet writing prose and verse. Wandering from town to town, he had no ambition to go up or down. He was merely a poet observing his fellow men, (and women), discovering how he could lend a hand, helping all who needed his talents. He was in the center of his life, the past already spent, the future not worth one cent, the center being all he had, and whether it was good or bad, he was a poet, lost in verse, perhaps his curse to see everything in real time, to feel strong emotions, and to discover truth.