He was fanatic for green tea. In particular a Chinese brand whose name translated to “Proud Countryside” which, unfortunately, was sprayed with American-manufactured pesticides, pesticides containing trace amounts of a known carcinogen – this is why the U.S. was pushing them on China; in 2003 they became illegal to sell to American farmers so the factories simply exported – which would later give him an operable brain tumor, manifesting itself as acute memory loss and an aversion to commas or any sort of pause in his speech or writing. This made for a mesmerizing damaged monotone, words evenly spaced, devoid of intonation, even when excited, even when shouting in anger, which he did more often now that nobody noticed.
For even then he sounded like a robot on heroin. Word got around. People started to pay good money to hear him read Anaïs Nin books. B = O = R = E = D = O = M reserves a stab at the sublime. Back and forth, back and forth – but it’s hard to live in a world where you know exactly what will cause your cancer or disease. He didn’t then, in his tea-drinking days, and this is what explained his happiness.