RIP, Harlan Ellison. And thank you. If Ray Bradbury taught me what language coule be... you taught me what passion could do to take that language and story to whatever end awaited. How to be brave, how to be foolish, how to rage and thrash and no matter where and how and what to take the story where it needed to go.

Harlan's words, stories were just always there. Like Zelazny, Moorcock, that generation of merry fools tackling the walls that others might have already climbed, but now faster and farther.

And in Harlan's case, perhaps with the occasional can of spray paint in hand, just to remind everyone that what we do here can often be taken a little too seriously.

Go thou, man, and find us someplace new to imagine, some other world beyond this one that has yet to know the sound of your voice.