Ray Bradbury was everything I want to be. Committed husband (65 years). Painter of planets, father of worlds I want to go to. Slayer of nefarious cliché, a future Johnny Appleseed planting orchards of better things. I miss you, friend. I’ll always be your student; I’ll carry your message of fantasy, terror, and visions of things worse than this quaint, ever-deviant world can produce, despite its efforts. I wish I hadn’t been too poor of brains and dollars to meet you. Rest in good, non-terrible peace, forever pedestrian of the wretched and fantastically beautiful.
