Obit cartoons are generally the easiest; in this case I must defer to words. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, a great talent was the victim of Phillip Seymour Hoffman, acting in an inexplicable slow-motion suicide, a familiar Shakespearean tragedy that too often befalls the uncommon artist. His Capote was eerie, his Priest in "Doubt" unforgettably authentic, and in "The Master" he was the star. Who would have guessed his master was Heroin and Hoffman, a desperate slave who had escaped the shackles of cheap euphoria for years had fallen back into the manacles of want. As mystifying on its surface as Amy Winehouse's drift into death or Whitney Houston's glide into darkness, this hunger for peace and euphoria plagues such bigger than life hearts; a kind apart, kindred tortured souls blessed with astounding natural gifts, and then doubly blessed yet again by the acclaim that eludes so many of their brilliant peers toiling and dying in anonymity. Yet these angels, rewarded with the two most sought after shining treasures, adoration and acknowledgement in the bright warm daylight, are cursed by such deep demons, both genetic and circumstantial, that they must eagerly pursue relief and peace into the dark slumber of the cold grave. Rest in peace, Mr.Hoffman. May we feel such warmth, compassion and pity for all addicts.