Fucking January

I woke to the news that David Bowie has died from cancer at the age of 69 and, inasmuch as one can be bereft over the death of a rock star one has never met, I cannot quantify how this upsets me. I developed my identity with his music. It's more than culturally relevant for me - it's part of my personal definition, my definition of music. I could write 5000 words on meaningful experiences I've had while listening to Hunky Dory, seeing Tin Machine in my teens, the Modern Love era. Let's just say I've had a lot of good sex to that music - and (not simultaneously) a lot of good dinner parties.

Now I've got to dwell on the loss of a personal icon, stupidly prematurely. At least he did just about everything. I can't imagine, on his deathbed, he regretted a life unlived.