He had an unusual fondness for sketch pads and notebooks.
Any visit to a bookstore was incomplete without purchasing something for which to write on. This would make documenting his recorded thoughts and experiences tedious, to say the least.
One thought may begin on page 1 of a leather bound journal, but would then carry over to the middle of a coiled notebook, only to resolve on a lightly stained post-it lining his bulletin board.
It wasn't that the man's thoughts couldn't co-exist together. More that each one was a side of a conversation he was having with himself, and he kept being interrupted by another thought in another part of the room. So by the time he would finish recording, he'd have written his way across the room.
The result being an impressive treasure trove of handwritten pages, all bound and unsorted throughout his writers' den.
The eclectic author would confess his guilt at having accumulated so much paper.
"When Anubis should come to weigh my heart, a whole forest of dead trees may very well tip the scale out of my favour."
The sentiment was more humorous to his daughter before she had to sort through it all herself ... before the accident ...
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