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January 11, 2016

Bowie wasn't supposed to go. But I suppose none of them were supposed to. Not by my estimate. Because the last time I saw him he was onstage with Trent Reznor. And the way I perceive time, there were these events in my youth, and there's now. And garbage crammed between. It was yesterday. And it's today. And he's gone. I wonder if people are referring to him as the man who fell to earth now. He was the future, the wireless fantasy. He created my Marilyn Manson, the most important artist. I thought it was my destiny for them to know me. I guess a lot of people think they're special and then they become other people. People for whom other things matter, and being an amazing famous artists falls by the side if it doesn't work out.

I fantasized today, after so many years still, of performing, while I was running on paths through hills. Death Cures All Pain. I had the light show in my head. But for whatever reason everything was hard and teenage angst as a teenager. And then it just never stopped. I went from being angry to being wrapped in a prison of my own anxiety. And it just has never ended. Even though my biggest dream was to be noticed by the artists who meant so much to me, I just never tried. And now they're dying. His music occasionally played in my dreams. My dreams live in my head, and they may die there, too.