I knew a man whose skin was stretched too far upon his face.
When he opened his eyes, his mouth would close. When he spoke, his eyes would shut. Thus he found it hard to speak of what he saw.
Over the years he was forced to be either the silent observer, or the voice of blind opinions.
He chose neither. He shut his eyes and spoke no more; then finally, he heard.
I read his haiku, written on napkins, at the local diner.
People say hes blinda mute, but through his writing, its obvious that he knew more simply by listening.