Out of the ashes of Hunter S. Thompson's remains

I learned of Thompson's death this morning, thinking about what good could come from one of the last vestiges of the old counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s. A new counterculture must begin, and soon. The finger points inwards, as I search for a new source of strange and dangerous writing. My wife doesn't understand Hunter as I do. She saw him as a man who was dangerous and mean to others, knowing full well what he was doing. Perhaps he was. But there was something vibrant in the self-destructive way he lived his life and wrote his lines. I too have taken my share of bizarre chemicals and seen a lot of televsions meet their makers.

In his death, I am inspired to write. And write what I am seeing and feeling, not just the pretty shiny stuff. I envision my writing ability as hiding in a large ornate wooden box in a dark room, with a heavy lock keeping the lid down. That lock has been broken by the events of today.