Bowie.

To the greatest man I never knew.

I don’t like celebrity culture. I never saw the point in obsessing over someone you never met. But then you came into my life, and consumed me. Slowly through my childhood, like a dripping faucet; then quickly like a thunderstorm when I hit fourteen. Your voice was the first thing that ever crackled over my record player, the first sound that filled the empty bedroom in my new house. You were the small voice I kept with me on those quiet, sad nights; you were the freak light that kept me sane. And I wish I had better words for you. Something terrifying and magical. Something heavy and soul-splitting. Because you were all of those things to me. You’re the itch I can’t scratch, the wet dream at sweet sixteen, the tap-tap in my red shoes, the pressure behind my eyes as I sit down and write this, because you’re gone. And your death shouldn’t make a difference, because we never held each other’s life, but f**k, that’s not right, you held mine a dozen times at least, and even though I never saw you through virgin eyes or virgin lights, but through pictures and shots rewound a thousand times, you being gone still sets an emptiness in me I could have never seen coming. But I guess that’s just how you were; something nobody saw coming. You were the Rock Star from Mars, the Thin White Duke, the Goblin King, the Blackstar.