Flashes of short scenes played out in my skull. My imagination had run away from me. I started to recap the hours I had spent with Finn: our emails shared back and forth; arriving on his precious island; almost getting shot in the back of the head with his Colt .45; walking with him to his cabin in the woods; his eyes devouring my naked chest; taking a tour of his cabin and barn-like studio; the continuous interview I had purposely put him through; becoming overwhelmed with his ashtray gift to me; experiencing the underground glass tunnel that he had created by his bare hands; our long string of vodka nightcaps and more conversation; sleeping next to him all through the night and making love to him in the morning; our breakfast date; the walk over Duskin Trail; climbing into his tree house and looking over the lake; and saying goodbye to the artist, feeling broken-hearted and lost, unsure of my decision to return to Columbus and…