So what if Shulgin died? It matters not.
Cancer took him, swift and sure as meter.
The handle of this coffee cup is steel.
It is true that men must die but not I,
not I.
I have stared into derelict mirrors,
My hate like an old strand of wheat pasta.
“No man can kill me!”I claim this loudly.
No man would wish to. This torch will burn out.
Still Shulgin is dead, my poor friend Sasha,
Who dreamed of a world that had never been.
Now the angels break bread with him and sing his songs.
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