I hope he's writing wherever he is now. And I hope I get a chance to read it sometime, somewhere.

We lost a good writer, which is a damn shame. Plaw now knows what happens when we die, but he found out the hard way. Take care, Neal.


"I'll look for you in old Honolulu,
San Francisco, Ashtabula,
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know.
But I'll see you in the sky above,
In the tall grass, in the ones I love,
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go."


The Doc

And you liar, teller of tall tales: you trample all the Lord's commandments underfoot, you murder, steal, commit adultery, and afterward break into tears, beat your breast, take down your guitar and turn sin into a song. Shrewd devil, you know very well that God pardons singers no matter what they do, because he can simply die for a song.