Today, like every other day, a life vanished. This life left a legacy both complex and contemplative, shared with viewers, listeners, readers, and dreamers.
Here are a few thoughts from Tilda Swinton:
The image of that gingery boney pinky whitey person on the cover with the liquid mercury collar bone was - for one particular young moonage daydreamer - the image of planetary kin, of a close imaginary cousin and companion of choice
...
We are -
And you brought us out of the wainscotting like so many
Freaky old bastards
Like so many fan boys and girls
Like so many loners and pretty things and dandies and dudes and dukes and duckies and testicular types
And pulled us together
Full speech HERE
And Bowie's answers to Proust's questionnaire:
Neil Gaiman's The Return of the Thin White Duke can be found HERE
And on his insistence that his Lucifer figure be based on Bowie HERE
And some lyrics:
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins
the branches to the sky
I'm sinking in the quicksand
of my thought
And I ain't got the power anymore
Don't believe in yourself
Don't deceive with belief
Knowledge comes
with death's release
"Eight Line Poem"
The tactful cactus by your window
Surveys the prairie of your room
The mobile spins to its collision
Clara puts her head between her paws
They've opened shops down West side
Will all the cacti find a home
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins
the branches to the sky
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