the way David Bowie thinks about dying.
He's a peripheral infidel; his psychedelic death chants are incredibly beautiful in the most haunting way but I don't wanna haunt people, I wanna save them
So maybe in the midst of all these ch-ch-changes we can picture a man (probably in full drag) dying at 69, enwrapped in a sullen vortex, black hole-like, detached from his own umbilical cord and floating in space for eternity, stamped
the idea of Bowie frozen in carbonate, a cosmic masterpiece suspended forever in a galaxy
utterly consumed by black holes.
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