I haven't posted here in ages, to the point of where most of you forgot who the fuck I am, but for this, I felt the urge to post.
Some day we'll be laid to rest six feet under or scattered across our ocean of choice and that will be that. The Greeks would ask when a man dies, "did he have passion?"
For Hunter S. Thompson, that's a question that never had to be asked. The Muses are weeping once again, and if they aren't, they should be. A man who on his worst day could destroy some of the best writers out there with thoughts so bluntly eloquent that he was on the short list of people who forced me to a crossroads in choosing my future profession.
Pick up one of his books. It doesn't matter which one; Coltrane never released a bad album and Thompson never published a bad book. There is brilliance in there that is indescribable and a talent so perfectly harnessed that it pisses me off and sends me to the brink of hanging it all up and finding a job that pays. I didn't always agree with the man, in fact my beliefs and his had a few conflicts, and it still doesn't matter.
Hunter S. Thompson doesn't just slay me with his eloquence, he rams a pike through my chest and pins me to the wall of all the other people who make attempts at achieving a fraction of the skill he had.
Somewhere, out there, the gates are opening up for Hunter, and Socrates, Dante, Elliot Smith, Arthur Miller and Tennessee Williams are welcoming him in. And if they're not, they fucking should be.