The casual observer would never guess that my friend wakes up each morning in despair. He smiles easily. He flirts. He laughs. He listens.
He’s a great talker, too, an authentic bohemian spreading good will and philosophy with no visible means of support.
When I saw my friend this morning, though, I could tell that the demons were overtaking him. “Here I go again,” his expression seemed to say. “Pray for me.”