I’m not that much of a capable writer so I’ll let a couple of friends explain me:
Laying down your thought foundations,
Building up your concrete heart.
Smelting your hardened veins,
With fires which have left their mark.
Burns and Scars,
But I can see you for what you are.
Houses, home is what you could be,
With petunias growing,
And daffodils under the apple tree.
The smell of food wafting by,
Like your laughter, likes your cries,
Tears at films, smiles at music
Playing from upstairs.
Laughter, happiness, tea, hot chocolate and good times
In the kitchen of your life,
Hugs, and sadness, with love and support,
In the dining room of your time.
Bathrooms will cleanse, and Bedrooms will please.
But only when this house is complete,
And then there’s curtains up, a few blinds.
And when you’ve put the doormat out,
You’ll invite us all home.
He was a man of about average height, and perhaps as little over average build, the latter probably due to a rather close and faithful relationship with cheap alcohol. He had avoided all the shackles of higher education and found himself a less stagnant life in the world of work, where, on the whole, he flourished.
He appeared at times to have limitless energy and left his friends dumb-founded at some of his antics. At other times he could fully embrace his melancholic side and cause those around him to fret, some all the more anxiously since they were miles away and could see of him only what he chose to show them.
And yet for all his wild ways and worrying habits, his friends found that they could not abandon such a man as he. His personality was magnetic and, just like Watson to Holmes, his friends returned time and again, with anxiety and resignations, but with also a love which could not be shaken.