A Day Late, A Buddha of Suburbia Short: Farewell, Mr. Bowie

Where I was: Sitting at an improvised chair revising a chapter. It was 1:30 in the morning, prefaced with a text message of simplest nature: “Are you up?”


Nothing remains
We could run
when the rain slows
(–from Sunday)

On his birthday, David Bowie put out an absoultely smashingly excellent album, titled unpronounceably with a graphic but translateable as Blackstar. He celebrated his sixty-ninth birthday in festive fashion, we heard. I excitedly planned on getting that album in hard copy—struggle season be damned.
That was on Friday.

 

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