He lived a peaceful life in a fresh Spanish colonial home with floor to ceiling French doors in a hot tropical paradise. He had a lush moss lawn enclosed by thick hedges of palm trees, hibiscus, and ferns. Around the private jungle was a red brick wall smothered in red and purple Bougainvillea blooms. In the back yard was a sparkling blue swimming pool. He had a small loft studio on the second floor and often stayed at home with his cats who lounged in the sun on his studio balcony overlooking the pool. Every day when he felt the urge, he’d walk the narrow brick road about a mile to the other end of town. He was a member of many clubs. Clubs where the biggest fish du’ jour stories were served. He had a top-of-the-line fishing yacht and had no fear landing thousand-pound marlins, but obliged others, listening to their fish tales. He was admired for good looks, his charisma, guts, and zeal. Even though he suffered great injuries and great pain most of his life he was eagerly still alive. He could make you feel, smell, taste, see, and loudly hear everything he did and saw in life, but only through the eyes others, as his words and feelings never really came from him. He had many women from around the world who loved him madly but his heart was always somewhere far away. Yet one day, he moved far away. He awoke one summer morning and without thinking twice, whether to have or have not, sat down on the staircase and put a shotgun shell in his head. In the end as it had always been, 'twas he for whom the bell tolled.