n. sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out, that you’ll dutifully pass on the joke of being alive without ever learning the punchline—the name of the beneficiary of all human struggle, the sum of the final payout of every investment ever made in the future—which may not suit your sense of humor anyway and will probably involve how many people it takes to change a lightbulb.
“He walked right through you all - all of you - he blew straight through your brick wall ideologies, he jumped over your photocopied personalities and erased your imaginary borders and your clique-fuck guest lists —- he whistled Dixie and pissed all over the infant wading pool you all wax on and on about as “genius” and he chose his own fucking seat. He shined it up - custom designed the chair real nice - set up shop and never let go. He never backed down from his responsibility as a King.
Meanwhile all you middle-managers and the mud snouts who sip your swine drip spent a quarter century in expertly crafted meaningless bliss actually believing you sucked all the best music in the world through a nose pedal-box-drone-sampler-indie rock-guitar-looped Roland-toned ass-bubble up a 6-inch straw from a drive-through latte.”
Alan Bishop, referring to the death of Charles Gocher in 2007