So, you think they are dead?

Tupac and Biggie are smoking the finest dried hemp leaves from pipes constructed of cork and bamboo while Hendrix and Hitler form a poetically volatile psychedelic groove juice that ironically pulls an equilibrium within Morison's mind of his not quite intoxicated but not entirely liberated solidarity. Fuck it, everyone ripped those bamboo cork bongs and is tripped out to the point where cyanide can't even enforce euthanasia. Dip sticks and wristwatches, this island is in the fucking sky!