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Wednesday, May 07, 2014

You better learn it young

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* Philip Welsh’s simple life hampers search for his killer:

Philip Welsh rose every morning to a pot of coffee, a half-pack of cigarettes and a seat behind his Smith Corona typewriter. No Internet and no cellphone. Just a 65-year-old man trying to make sense of the world through his poems and trying to connect to it through his letters.
“I like your handwriting a lot,” he tapped out to one of his eight siblings last year. “If it isn’t renowned already, let me now renown it.”
By 1 p.m., Philip would leave the small yellow house in Silver Spring where he lived alone. He walked a half-block, waited for the No. 5 bus, took it to his job as a taxi dispatcher, returned home, cooked a late dinner, watched Charlie Rose and went to sleep. He never locked his front door and often left it wide open. Part was defiance. This is how I live. Part was warmth. Anyone is welcome.

* 'Cause, Someday Never Comes.

Posted by Marie at May 7, 2014 9:10 PM