Who, after all, wants to grow up in a post-fabulous age — even one protected, more often than not, from the stench of shit? Who wants to exist in a world bereft of magic?
For a person sufficiently creeped out by the possibility of zombies, a simple 1.8 minutes spent chasing the paper trail from Google to the CDC’s drab government website will give them exactly what they’re looking for. Or not.
Converting the act of mourning to something as abstract as a piece of instrumental music serves to further isolate it from death itself. Bradbury skips a step or two: the March IS death.
Like any true, pure fan of something — a fan who has lived through the lens of the object of their fandom, to a point that no one else could possibly understand — I get really stressed out when I think about all the other fans.