Of all that has come and gone in the world, I shall truly miss him most. Boldness of spirit, brash and cavalier…he was the father of original thought who sired the likes of Brando, Lennon and Washington who in turn taught us to feel, moved us to dance and inspired us to greater deeds. He was many once…a thousand sparkling lights on the frontier of man, shining to the heavens with such force of intention…the stars would move aside to let him pass, bowing to the greater light.

But alas, he is dead…first escorted by our careless selves to the empty and cowering, faceless black robes who shuffled the verdict in a trembling stutter and then passed him along to the Pontius Pilate of Political Correctness, where the sentence was handed down. Cross or Guillotine? I’m not sure…Guillotine-quick. Cross-slow and torturously painful to the minds eye when it knows what is being taken…  

Woke up, got out of bed and dragged a comb across my head. And looking up, I noticed…

It only stands to reason that where there’s sacrifice, there’s someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where there’s service, there is someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master.
–Ayn Rand

I am hungry for his voice again…now only a faint whisper to minds old enough to remember, and dreadfully close to their own slumber. The Shining City, now a ghost town surrounded by the barren desert of Group Speak…every grain of sand there, the same. Am I reading this or am I dreaming this? If you are me then, I beg you to awaken now…before they herd us all to this place.