All the great ones are dead. I know I have said as much before, but it keeps coming back to me. They have left us, all we can do is remember. John Bonham, just now, working that bass drum pedal… good times bad times… can’t happen again not by him, not by his hand (or anyone else’s, for that matter). The greats that have lingered on have done so to their own detriment. Long enough for us to miss them in their prime, but still present now in their meager denouement. Those who have left too early gave us a gift: a clear dividing line. We know they were great, we know will never see it again, and we know we miss them. We know we miss them.
Ink (flows, stains). 