Tell me, Ray, with what sepulchral seance scripture might I summon you back here, if only for a night? With what assortment of witchwords and cursed crystals, mummy dust and banned book ash could I call you up so we might break midnight bread? I have so many questions, Ray, and I am so in need of your guidance. Do you think this decline of our country was inevitable? Do you grieve, wherever you are, watching book bans spread across the nation as libraries are defunded and teachers punished for the books on their classroom shelves? Do you rage, Ray, as large language models gorge themselves on the works of creatives so the rich can spew out soulless, AI-generated media and never pay a cent to writers or artists again? Did you ever think it would come to this? 

Things feel so bleak right now; with fascism on the rise and capitalism draining the world of its last precious resources, nothing feels safe or certain or sacred anymore. Please tell me, Ray, what would you do in my place? Should I pull my writing from the internet, refuse to let billionaires glut their machines on the work of my soul and in so doing forfeit the community I worked so hard to find? Or should I say damn the machine, damn the algorithm, and keep sending my words out into the ether like so many bottled letters into ocean waves knowing others profit off what I offer freely? Can you even fight the machine from within without aiding its devilry? 

I’m so full of grief, Ray. I’m so full of rage. Come forth, my mentor, my old friend, for even just one night, and tell me how we prevent the future you predicted so many decades ago from becoming our reality. Help me see a way forward through despair and into determination. If anyone can rekindle the fires of my faith, it’s you. Tell me it will be okay, Ray. Jump up the candle flames, spin the planchette, send October winds howling through spring’s cherry blossoms. Let me know you’re here. Let me know you’re watching over us still.