Pushing around a weather vane Jesus

So I just found out that Kurt Vonnegut died yesterday

and I just, I don't even know

I remember the first time I finished Breakfast of Champions I sat back and realized, with a small sense of amazement, that somewhere in the world the brain that produced such a book was busily firing neurons, that somewhere in the world (probably Manhattan, come to think of it), that author was alive. Such a wonder! Sartre died before I was born, Whitman had long gone to dust, but for a few decades I milled about God's green earth with 6.5 billion people and a crotchety old Manhattanite named Vonnegut.

And he kept on living, too, long after the words of Slaugherhouse 5 and Breakfast of Champions and God Bless You Mr. Rosewater had sifted through my mind and settled into forgetfullness at the edges of thought. Except not anymore. And it's like when Mr. Rogers died, when everybody woke up too late to the cold realization that Mr. Rogers could die. And now that band of light has winked out and I'm stuck here, pondering it all.

How strange it is to be finite.