I ask him about something I’ve seen him do since the first day I spent with him. Sometimes he hangs his head low, lets his hair fall over his face, and simply sits there, motionless, hidden in plain sight. He snorts when I mention this. I ask what he’s thinking under there.
‘I don’t know. Different things. Sometimes I’m thinking about music. Sometimes I’m thinking about other stuff.’
‘When you do it you give the impression,’ I say, ‘that you’d rather not be where you are that moment.’
‘Well’, he says, ‘I’m sad. I make it so obvious.’