Letter I left on Philip K. Dick’s grave

You sipped from a Valis channeling chalice. Thank you for showing us your world,

your perspective, your paranoia, your peace. You died eating horse meat, then

Hollywood became millionaires.

While the world crooned dune and feared Isaac’s robots, you said it’s too late to stop doom. Your typewriter snapped hymns that were post-pop, post-human, post-civilization, post-physical, post-hope. You’re an epilogue for hope though. While authors spewed out pulp-pop-fi, you wrote your truth, you gave writing its madness back.

And there you are lying in the plains. Not a stranger in a strange land but a familiar one paved with pain. You used to be under there but now you’re with your characters, some real some fake. You taught me it’s lack of faith if you feel any word written is a mistake.

Fortune prophet teller of the apocalypse with medicine thoughts in his head.

Thanks for showing me how to be alive amidst most the living walking dead.