He described himself as a “Professional Muse,” which caused me to laugh a bit. But he wasn’t smiling: “I give people guidance,” he said, “I’m going now to meet my first client of the new year.”

I didn’t want to ask more questions, because some things are better left a mystery.

Jesus christ.

Can this man please be a character.

no omg can he be a character holy shit

There was no contract, no one ever hired him, no fees were ever discussed. He simply arrived when needed and left when he wished.

The bag was empty.

Yet when he sauntered in (never knocking, never needing anyone to unlock the door and always knowing exactly how to navigate the house he’d just entered), setting his fedora on the coat-rack that was there regardless of whether there had been one before his entrance or not and straightening his fur lined coat with a flourish of his gloved hands THEY were suddenly there.

The words, the notes, the design, whatever it was his new client needed, like a glorious flood, and all they had to do was be fast enough to catch them as they crashed about their minds.

And it was then, and only then, as his client would rush around in euphoria, CREATING.

Only then did he smile.

It was soft and easily reached his eyes as he sat sipping the tea that had not been there a moment before, watching as they worked, chuckling lightly as they frantically scrabbled to find their favorite pen or the charger or paint brush.

Then – after minutes, or hours, or days, and whether his new client was finished or not – he would quietly stand.

Cross the room to his bag.

And snap it shut.

With one final nod he would place his hat back on his head (the coat-rack vanishing if it had not been there to begin with) and calmly saunter out just the way he had come.

I’m waiting by my door.