Richard Lewis’s final breath tore a jagged seam through the world’s paper-thin joy, and for a moment even the loudest cities seemed to flinch. The man who turned panic into poetry now lay beyond the reach of the spotlight he both craved and feared, and those who clung to his frantic honesty felt something vital unhook. It was as if a secret translator for their own chaos had vanished, leaving them alone with the raw, untranslated noise of their thoughts. In the sudden quiet, the old fear returned: that maybe their strangeness was never going to make sense to anyone again, that the one voice who could turn dread into laughter had slipped out a side door while they were still mid-laug… Continues…
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