Something happened on the day you died, Mr Bowie. I saw strange things and for one moment there, I passed my old self upon the stair. Driving south the sun was a mad red orb in its last throws. Scary Monsters was playing on the radio. A giant robot praying mantis with glowing eyes loomed from the other lane. At a point of passing it morphed back into a Fulton Hogan crane. How often, Mr Bowie, your songs would be like that. Lead the little girl to a point of terrified ecstasy, about to pass into something menacing and marvellous. Some savagely cool sorcerer might have thrown darts in my eyes. I would stumble about blindly like a fool at the edge of the abyss. Oh no, not me, I never lost control. But you kept going and yep, you're a blackstar as we all will be, or maybe already are.