Tonight I am hiding from my parents. 

I've been hiding since 10:30 and I've gotten very good at it. 

I left my wide open sleeping area for the almost secludedness of my father's office. 

It has doors of glass and isn't exactly as far away from my parents' room as I would like it to be, but I can't complain. 

I sit here in this chair, the room filled with darkness; the only light is the blue of my computer background; David Bowie and Mick Jagger at a party with matching nail polish. 

The matching nail polish is key to mention because it shows they were together before hand, but that topic is for another day. 

I'm listening to Life on Mars?

Its on my playlist of my favorite songs ever, titled I'm in love with David Duchovny. (which is true.)

The sound is beautiful, except for the paranoid moments when I have to pause it when I hear my house creak or leave one ear out of my headphones just to make sure I didn't hear anything except for my friend the ghost. 

The vocals are the parts of the songs that I usually separate out from the rest of it; especially with Bowie. 

His voice is so unique and attractive; 

I notice how his accent slips in and out, 

how his tone varies with every lyric and note,

how the growl in his voice comes out at just the perfect moment, 

how his own created vocals match each other and harmonize while still being so different and needed.

His voice is filling me now, making my mind too distracted to wonder where the Norfolk Broads are, 

my mind is too far gone, lost in Bowie's words to focus on anything other than him. 

Bowie screams, he growls, he moans, he draws out every sound to the perfect extent;

he makes me wish I could just evolve into the music every second my consciousness is filled with it. 

I don't think I've ever wanted anything more than to immediately become one with Bowie's voice when his lips part just before he speaks.

But Bowie never really speaks; what he's doing is more beautiful and powerful than us people, humans will ever be able to comprehend. 

So how will we begin to describe it?

We simply can't. 

I try sometimes; only to describe it to myself, but I can't 

the music can't be translated. 

It has its own language, the language that Bowie raised and created; still watching it grow and expand from wherever he sits from today.

the beauty of the music of David Bowie has always eluded description that accurately conveys its infinite relief. 

The beauty of David Bowie himself has also eluded the same thing; he cannot be described by human words or human feelings. 

One look at Bowie and I can't understand anything anymore; only that I never want to stop looking at him, and I've never wanted anything more than to touch his face. 

Oh, how I long to touch Bowie's face. 

But I don't believe that act could be done by most people that have ever lived, including myself. 

Only the rare qualify to take such an action as incredible and life changing as touching Bowie's face. 

(the rare includes people other than Mick Jagger, but I'd like to use this time to emphasize that he is one of them,)

I don't think I'll ever accept that I simply can't touch Bowie's face, I can only look at the images of himself that he has left here for us. 

The memories of his much too short time on our planet. 

But perhaps this starman left by choice. 

Perhaps he was sick of our shit like so many of us, myself included, are. 

Perhaps he felt he had done all he could do; that we just could not be fixed; so he left Earth with the respect of leaving like our people leave; death. 

But I can't accept that either. 

I can't accept that Bowie is a person who was born and died, 

because it is so obvious that he was created by gay scientists.