Oh David, David, you've gone and left us scurrying about this silly planet!
I strangely never had a sex fantasy about you. Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one on planet Earth that DIDN'T want to hop into your bed, although I liked what I saw in "The Man Who Fell To Earth." No, David. I wanted to hop in your mind instead. Unlock the secrets.
But there weren't any. You told us exactly how you worked in your own songs. You spoke truths to us and few listened. You even told us you were dying and few listened.
But there are some of us who also understand waiting for the gift of sound and vision. That it's a divine collaboration. A tidal force, even.
I hope on some level we occupy the same energy sphere. I am so very grateful for the immense legacy you have left us. I know you're perfectly fine so I didn't even cry over your death - not until until I heard St Alban's colossal pipe organ bash out "Life On Mars?" And then I finally understood the fervour of a religious zealot, my own personal Jesus. I sobbed so hard to that tribute of your work like a woman disembowled. No Christian hymn ever moved me as much as that modern-day Blake poem. Blake is in your sphere too, Bowie. Him and Wilde and all those insane visionaries, and now you've joined them good and proper.
I ask the universe, if I can make any positive impact on others as you've done for millions of us around the world (and beyond), I wish to follow in your footsteps. To collaborate, encourage, generate, love.
The outpouring of emotion over your death comes from so many who owe you so much, little Alice included. I've always felt a kinship to you: a little dorky, a little out there, extremely prolific in many things, completely alien to all my surroundings. I saw myself reflected in you as countless others have. The world's mirror: be it darkness or be it light, you showed it to us. For me, the mirror only showed art. Light. Freedom and joy. I knew all about your wacky drug infused behaviour and didn't care. There was only Bowie, the slight, strange man who swallowed demons the rest of us have been too frightened to face, our Saint George. We knew. And in the aftermath you gave us misfits all a small place to hide, having faced the darkness for many.
But you showed us. Art is the answer. Beauty, love, creative energy. It is what the world will always remember, thank you, and love you for. I'll carry my artistic torch for you the rest of my life, Goblin King with the alien eyes. I'm sad I shall never meet you in person, but I sure as hell feel you in spirit.
Even the night you died, when we were all still blissfully unaware, I thought of you, channeled you. For a split second I hope you visited when you slipped through the veil at last. This is the last tribute I could give you before your death, dearest David, with sincere thanks for what you've given to us.