I've come to think of death as... well, we all get to play in the pool, or in the session, or whatever, but at some point, we have to leave. The person doing the leaving just stops. Goes to sleep and doesn't wake up. The people left behind are the ones to feel the loss--the tearing pain and the "phantom limb" sensation. Still there, somewhere.

Amos was such a huge part of Mudcat during what I think of as our "heyday". Before it was mostly a place for British people to fight about British politics. We were Americans (and Germans, and Irish and Icelanders, and Canadians, and...etc) who fought about American politics. Or the best recipe for chile.

The soaring imagination of the Tavern threads or the inspiration of "a flea,an orange,a bicycle seat" made Mudcat seem like a wonderland of brilliant minds and crazy ideas. We played, not fought. There are fewer people who remember those times now. And the light that was Amos, that shone on far more than only Mudcat, is darkened. Go well, you good man.