Bradbury is dead.
The electric dog breathed out the last cloud of steam onto the window glass, the orange lights of pumpkin from the autumn country ceased to shine, no one will write the beauty of the lily, the muddy plant, the blue sky, the juicy apple in the middle of the day, the calm summary and the cold lemonade. Cities on Mars will quietly settle under the grip of years, Marsans will freeze on the bottom of marble pools under the thickness of water and time.
Silence, silence and silence without words.