So there I was, not thinking about actors or pop icons. And now, I am. But only because it’s so fucking surreal that I should care in any way about the gap that is left in human interaction or consumption or experience. I find that I do care. Legends shouldn’t die so young. Ah, there it is: the Legend. I equate this persona not with a person who sleeps and farts and stubs his toe, but with a story that is written and read and interpreted. And there is no more to the story. There will be epilogue, prologue, subtext, and apocrypha, but the story ends this way, always. With a lacunal chapter on what comes next. Anger and grief are left in the collection for a sentence or a paragraph. And then the ink fades. This specific emotional experience is not of archival quality. And Legends find a way to thrive anyway. Without and beyond me.