I feel sorry for you, you zeroes. You nobodies. What’s going to live on after you die. I’ll tell you — nothing! That’s what!
This house will become a shrine! And punks and skins and Rastas will all gather ’round and hold their hands in sorrow for their fallen leader! And all the grownups will say, “But why are the kids crying?’ And the kids will say, ‘Haven’t you heard? Rick Stormin is dead! The people’s poet is dead!”
Then one particularly sensitive and articulate teenager will say, “Why kids? Do you understand nothing? How can Rick Stormin be dead when we still have his poems?!”