He's a musician. A good one. We go and jamma-lamma together in a secluded rehearsal space in East Berlin. Dank, dreary. The police come because we're too loud. The night is a success ... Pigs in Zen. He tells me that he used to get into fights alot, but now he's changed his tune. Just like Miles Davis, I say. Yeah, he goes, that's right. I tell him that it's a drummer's job to HIT THINGS (if ya think about it). Beat, beat, beat that drum. He's a mad one, yep, but quite creative and intelligent. We hit the bar, too. Later, he asks me all those questions:

He asks: "Why do you travel so much?"
I give him all the answers.
He asks: "Why have you been staying in all those different places?"
I tell him the truth, that all the rent money that "normal" people pay, I sock away (as they say) and give it to the MUSICIANS.
He nods.

"That's very noble."