John Perry Barlow is thinking about his Spalding Grey's apparent suicide.

"There's a vision that keeps floating through my thoughts. I imagine him bobbing in that lethal water, watching the ferry churn away. The lights of lower Manhattan glittering behind him, as functionally distant as stars in space. For several minutes, he was as certainly dead as he is now and yet fully, lucidly alive. He was in a bardo, as the Tibetans call the stations of death, and yet he was in a bardo that lies within the physical world. I am letting myself believe that those minutes were a transport of release, an utter peace. A glory at last."

This breaks my heart.