He has poured it all out; emptied his memory cache; committed it to paper with the intensity and urgency of a man on a mission.
It's raw; literal mulch; fertile fodder waiting to be sized and pressed into a book. And he has asked me to help. We don't know the shape or weight of what it will be; but the writing will reveal itself.
I can't wait Pops. Bring it on. Send it over. And let it be.