#RIPTerryJones, Hermit of the Juniper, Mum of Brian
What are we but the culmination of idle hours, flailing limbs, and rampant cogitations? In the misery of to-day, in the whirling entropy of grief, I have accidentally remembered that all those I love named Terry are now gone. Terrance Hanbury White. Sir Terry Pratchett. Terry Jones. Heaven, or something like it, must be a grand old place, with such a collection of giants to furnish its halls, the palladiums to guard its troves and offer pedantic tirades to all. Of course nobody is educated nowadays; all the best loresmen are dead. And everyone wonders why death is so attractive as of late. Being educated by the elites ought to always be fashionable, regardless of whether they still be alive. It is hardly my fault they all decided to die, and therefore I should not be blamed for being to follow. Emulate your heroes how you can. Being left to wallow in their legacies, to peruse the moderate-sized mountain of books each has left behind, is an agony in itself: it is