On the Suicide of Kurt Cobain, 1994
This man knew what he was doing. Shotgun. Head. Boom. Gone. Even the beautiful, doomed crazies (I’m one) who want, against all evidence and reason, for consciousness to be something extra-physical will agree that, whatever it is, however it works, it happens in the brain. The pineal gland dropped its claim years ago. So if, for whatever reason, a man who knows what he’s doing decides it’s time for no talking after lights out, he wants to shred that thinky fucker, tear it to dog food, as quickly and reliably as possible. And a shotgun at point-blank range is absolutely the perfect tool for the job.