Vic wanted you to think he was a miserable bastard but his heart was connected to the center of things. He couldn't help it. The world and its occupiers annoyed him - but whatever he said it was beautiful part of nature. A poet. In the flow of things. Few people are like that. Most of us can't care or live or feel too much. We let it go. We kill it. We forget. Most of us let our pains, our shells, our habits lock us into who we are. Some rise above. It is awful he is gone. I thought that he had a pure heart. I thought he was a sweetheart. His songs always made me want to write write write songs myself.


Mark Eitzel deixou esta dedicatória a Vic Chesnutt no seu blog. O músico aparentemente suicidou-se com uma overdose de relaxantes musculares, conseguindo por fim o que já havia tentado algumas vezes. É uma perda imensa.