Where Are You, Hunter?

It's a fucking joke. "Candle in the Wind", Christ. What a twisted fuck, mocking his own death before it happens.

Better image would be the explosion of a bullet from one of his myriad of guns stretched out over the span of his years. Or the flames pissing out of a lighter fluid bottle over the distance.

Where are you, Hunter? Not you the man, the ashes smoldering around Owl Farm, but YOU, the raw, the angst-ridden, the truth, the savior of these United States of America. In earnest, YOU are ME, are WE. YOU are down there, buried below ever piling loads of shit; glossy, plasticy propanganda puked out in sound bytes and article subtitles and podcasts, whatever the fuck those are. Where are YOU!!!! WE need to dig YOU out, free YOU from Vegas, explode YOU out of a peyote button to burn down this farce.

This farce of transparency, of authenticity, of total access, of behind-the-scenes, of reality. YOU ARE ME!!! WE are Hunter. WE have to be! WE have to, individually and as the unholy mob, dig out of this shit. Media today should be US, not them, not the Fourth Estate. WE still mindlessly drone on, regurgitating their puked up tripe. Vietnam and Cambodia? Look at Afghanistan and Iraq. Fuck.

Hunter the man did indeed give up, give out. But maybe his self-martyrdom could actually serve the Hunter in US, forcing US to find him, to save him. So HE can save US! There's your fucking authentic giving. Selfless patriotism, not blind peevish sheepery. Serve truth, not people. Give to the Constitution, not the asses and elephants.

Maybe I'm not looking hard enough. Maybe it's MY fault. Of course it's MY fault. I am everybody, I AM HUNTER!!!!!

Where am I? Who the fuck are YOU?

Peace.