Perfumer and blogger Anya McCoy received confirmation that Theresa Duncan had indeed killed herself. Her boyfriend, Jeremy Blake, found her and a note in the converted church in NYC where they had been living. He is still missing.

The family is requesting donations in her name be made to the Whitney Museum, NYC.

Her Fourth of July post was characteristically poetic.

But just as The Little Prince could look up into the vast night sky and know that his rose lived far off on some particular planet, we at Wit also detail our signs for those who know, so that They might be guided toward Us by the varied light of our linguistic constellations. Yes, language created even the first ever illumination, and now we borrow back a little word and a little wattage both in order that we might reflect another of nature's fair farragos.

So...let there be Aria di Capri we utter, and prettily perfume the rectory air at dim rainy dusk on this fabled Fourth Of July eve. One burst from the bottle is a beautiful's woman's laugh, startling, sharp and silver like a 747 slicing suddenly above the cloud cover and rising into the sun. The city, the rain, the proximity to many stupid people stacked waiting for what? in apartments. And the inviolable white magic aura of our apartment is rent right away by July Aura anyway.

Like shiny armor it suddenly encases us. The sunshine, the lemons, the exuberances of sour grapefruit and tanged-up clementines that are so shiny, so way-out, they look like rocks that will be polished for some fantastic fairy giant's jewels. The mist still hangs in the air as I speak, like light trails careening oh so slowly off a crackling Catherine Wheel.

Our sparks stay suspended all night tonight by Olde American Magic, so stay up. They'll illumine the way toward every American's rightful portion of liberty, joy and crazy-colored, ever present, indestructible light.