Mike lived upstairs from me in an old photo tint factory in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I almost never saw him, but we all shared one mail basket and I couldn't help but notice that he always got the best mail, sometimes addressed to Eros. The first time I went up to his loft was to complain that his bathing ritual that day had caused water to drip into my bathroom and on to my head.

It was in '93 that I noticed that Mike was sick. I had just moved upstairs into the loft next to his, and offered to help if he ever needed a hand. At first I helped by lifting something heavy or fixing a broken shelf, but I eventually helped him put on his clothes and inject his medicine. He went from the annoying splasher upstairs to the only man whose socks I've pulled on.

It was a very powerful experience going from anonymous neighbors to the closeness that was required to be of use to a man dying with AIDS. I know that Mike felt that he was doing all of the taking, but I feel lucky to have been allowed inside and to have gained the wisdom that was passed.