They called him many things as the years stacked up: dreamer, troublemaker, poet of the streets, ghost-seer, fighter, troubadour of the unseen.
He grew up framed by Cincinnati's weathered brick and humming neighborhoods, the son of a musical family and a mother who taught with a ferocity reserved for the brave. From her he learned discipline and tenderness at the same time: that strength could be soft and that love could be an act of resistance.
As a child he lived in two worlds at once. Paint, charcoal, and daydreams — an artist before he could spell the word. He saw spirits. He saw ghosts. He levitated, or at least he remembers floating with a clarity that feels more truthful than most daily facts.