I really enjoyed this, mostly fictional, account of Heath Ledger’s last days.

After I died, people dissected me. They put words in my mouth: This is how he felt when he wrote this, this is what he thought of me, this is why he did it. Fuck them. But also bless them. They made me famous. Immortal. Suddenly, my songs, which once were strange and ill-conceived, now were fat with meaning. When you die, you become a Virgin Mary, an untouchable exalted thing with a golden breast and a mink brow. You lose yourself, and they win you. You have no voice, and so a million people breathe and talk for you. Your art is their art. Your casket is their temple, your last words are their next ten commandments.

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