the Stars Look Very Different, Today

David Bowie died yesterday.

There are many words to be said. All day have you not mulled them over in your head, stopping in the street and trying to make sense of the leaden letters within. I nearly cried on the train to Williamsburg, Manhattan glittering in the distance and the irony of rolling around in a tin can with all the time in the world ahead of you, despite how the world speaks of it most days.

There is something of New York in Bowie, or of Bowie in New York. That the most beautiful being will give you the time of day, and in so doing, will make your every crooked caveat acceptable, will make your ugly, sad, and misfit pieces lovable. And when something like that goes missing, there are no words left to say, no songs left to write.

The walk home was freezing cold, the sky clear and full of stars, but dull, somehow, though you couldn't put your fingers on it. I went home to my typewriter and let it compete with the riser in bringing the blood back to my fingertips. There is too much to be said. But you have to start somewhere.

David Bowie is dead.

You are not.