Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.

The show is fucking over, folks. It’s been more than a day. He is not coming back and he is gone forever and it’s time that we sucked up to the facts: we will never be David Bowie and we will never see another one again. Life, as we know it, is over (or something like it) so take off your tights and brush your hair and it’s time to wear that button-down shirt unironically and retire to your desk like a normal, antedelusional workperson you know you were supposed to be: that square peg in the circular hole that goes home to his shitty apartment in the middle of some bustling metropolis someplace where fun is around every corner before it disappears by the time you get there, or the basement of your parents’ house because despite being twenty-six and beginning to gray in the hair, the world just isn’t what it used to be back when you could hitchhike across the USA like Kerouac or the King; it’s frightening out there and it’s that sort of gloom that hollowed out his voice into the cathedral that he squeezed into strangulated higher tones and croons—rock isn’t something to play with, boy; your hair isn’t orange enough. Continue reading “Bowie is Lost. Bowie is Free.”

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