Kinda hard to be down about Hunter thompson dying. something like "too crazy to live, too rare to die" being bullshit, because no matter how rare and wonderful a flower you are, it might at some point seem like a good idea to buy two bottles of JD and introduce mr. bullet to mr. temple. I dont really feel mortality from it, or like he learned any lessons from it either. He just seemed to live fast, die fast, and maybe that he had his own choice at the end, maybe he would have liked that. Maybe its the need of an icon to give one last piece of shock journalism to his critics. But who really cares. Why is it that every single drug writer starts out so hopeful, and revolutionary, and unique, and they all end up in a pool of blood vomit and shit on someone's floor, with half a head left and no more beautiful images to spout on about whilst supping from a bottle of strong acid and ranting at his weirdo friends. It just seems exciting that stories didnt occur to him, he went out and found them all. Right up until recently, he was taking investigatory journalism down the Lucy in the Sky route. Maybe he just went dry, finished up his last line, had nothing left in the tap, or maybe too long living too hard caught up with him. Either way, it seems obvous. We die young! It makes you think. Maybe drugs ARE bad. Maybe drugs are a depressant. Maybe writing is a depressant. Was drugs his life, and writing his release, or vice versa? Maybe its the fate of everyone who has been up to a certain height, that you suddenly realise how much lower they can go than the rest of us. Maybe Hunter just won the life limbo competition.