My hero is a cannonball

They shot the Good Doctor out of a pyrotechnical marvel today on the grounds of the Owl Farm. A sense of closure for a man I looked up to, his body peppered across a valley in Colorado. But as much as I amdired him, I was left with a sense that I didn't get enough from him. A sense that I was robbed of some knowledge, precious documents shredded by a large-calibre hangun. But I guess that is how it goes. Fitzgerald. Poe. Fitzgerald. They never stay around long enough to give up their secrets and get old. They are our philosopher kings, and they don't like to meet their successors. Farewell and Gonzo-speed, Dear Doctor. The world will miss the clacking of your keyboard.