Ruben reminds us that Jim Morrison died thirty-six years ago today. I could only imagine, had he lived, he’d be drinking harder than ever as society spirals even faster to a pointless consumer hell where the future's more uncertain and the end decidedly weirder. He also serves to remind me that, when all is said, and done, no one here does get out alive, and the only legacy we leave is the work we produce. Thus, the dead must rest, and I have to get back to my keyboard and my imagination. There is no other option.
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