Compared to those people, I have no right to complain.

But I do, because I still lost things important to me. I can’t ever listen to any of Linkous’s work the same way again, from 12 Jealous Roses through Good Morning Spider and Dark Night of the Soul. They join Chesnutt’s Is the Actor Happy?, Cobain’s In Utero, Gilbert’s Thud, Smith’s Either/Or, Wallace’s A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again, and far too many others to name, on the sad list of poisoned works.

I can’t appreciate them for what they used to be; now they carry a dark payload, now they’re full of questions, lines that might be clues. And the biggest, worst questions: what does it mean that so much of the art that speaks to me so deeply is made by people who end themselves? Who among the artists whose work I love, the people I love, friends, people I exchange casually pleasantries with at rock shows or on the Internet would I really not be all that surprised to hear news like this about?

How much should I worry that a strange, small switch inside me might one day get flipped to “broken”?

So, fuck you, Mark Linkous. Many of my friends are nicer than I am; they hope you rest in peace. I can’t agree. I hope you rest uneasily, for now. I hope you find peace only later.

The Javelin is the ultimate get-away car. Luke has black vinyl panels he can strap to the hood and the rear; they flap down to cover the plates, the headlights, and the taillights so nothing reflects. You can be in pursuit of this car and it will practically vanish before your eyes. It’s the stealth fighter of the automobile world. Luke gets confused and sometimes calls it a Mustang for no particular reason. Of all the cars ever made, he thinks his ‘72 Javelin has the most predatory profile.

Hours later he rounds the same corner. The cops are still on the dusky verge. Now they’re both doing the wheelie pirouette. They’re not wearing helmets.

Luke isn’t really conscious of pulling off, he’s just aware that now he’s standing near the cops, watching their graceful rotation. The mountain air is crisp. “Must be some updraft,” Luke says. One of the cops replies; it doesn’t really matter what he says.

Luke lies down in the gravel. He can feel it through his jeans, but not through his leather jacket. Nothing happens.

“Must be too heavy,” he says.

“No,” one of the cops counters. “It’s pretty strong.”

Luke shrugs out of his jacket anyway. He’s mildly surprised to see he’s wearing a dress shirt. Its royal blue is even deeper in the twilight. Luke expects to be cold, but it’s not so bad. He lies down in the gravel again; now he feels it digging into his shoulders.

Not for long.

Almost immediately he begins to rise.

His progress is slow, but steady.

Luke doesn’t worry that he will grow hungry; he knows he’s changing. The air grows thinner as he ascends. By the time it’s too thin to breathe, he has changed enough that he no longer needs to.

An unmeasurable time passes.

Eventually, he begins to enter another atmosphere.