I suspect that if you were alive you'd still be out there... not with a Kotex strapped to your forehead, but maybe unveiling a new bluesy single on Letterman's show or flashing that famous smile on a syndicated cooking show, teaching us how to make a nice toad in the hole. Bet you'd have written a novel or two by now. Or at least a few short stories... set in the late forties and the early fifties. Something about mothers and sons. Probably.
Thirty years is long time. Seems even longer sometimes in the dead of winter.
I can play Imagine all the way through on the keyboard now. Without fucking up a lot. Just thought you should know.
Thanks for everything. Again. Always.