I am more than madly in love with David Bowie. 

It's so much more than love. 

It's so much incredibly more than love. 

And I will never admit that it is simply a hyperfixation, 

Even though the small, logical voice in my head whispers it every second I think about him.

But I don't listen. 

I tell the voice that this time is different, I will forever cry while listening to Starman as I think about what David was thinking while he wrote

(He was thinking about having sex with Mick Jagger)

I won't move on this time

I will never get to the point where I listen to Brooklyn Baby for the first time in a month and groan about how beautiful the sound is

and how I will listen to it more because of how much I yearn for the way that sound fills me

But I don't listen to it again. 

It's been a week. 

And there's something inside of me, maybe its David Bowie, but there's something inside of me that tells me not to. 

There's a voice that tells me I'm not ready to listen to it again; that I'm not ready for the feelings that it will inevitably evoke. 

But I'm already listening to the painfully ethereal sound of Space Oddity that is pulling my consciousness into a thousand pieces. 

I'm already feeling like the sound that's filling my ears will be the death of me. 

It will end me and the rest of the world with its beauty. 

It will only take the four, short notes of the brass instrument for the whole world to just collapse in pain. 

In good pain. 

Not good pain as in sexual, good pain as in a yearning that I will never be able to describe without shoving headphones over someone's ears,

asking them to close their eyes, 

and then turning the volume up to a level where the world disappears around them. 

The world swirls into the feelings and colors and sounds of Bowie. 

Into the beauty that he created. 

Into everything that he is and was, his entire life, the earth's entire existence, your existence which you are now realizing is so incredibly unimportant.

Where are my fucking protein pills?

Where is my helmet?

What ignition should I be checking?

What god could there possibly be if you, David Bowie, walked on earth?

Sometimes, I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and truly pull out his voice over all the other sounds.

I curl in on myself, devastated by the thought that David Bowie's voice is in my ears.

David Bowie is talking to me.

I am hearing his voice; he is in my head; his voice is ricocheting around my brain that is empty except for the one image I can imagine

the image of  the wavy, psychedelic world that Bowie came from. 

Sure, Bowie was just a white, english boy with crooked teeth who had a phase where he shaved his eyebrows off. 

The thing is, he pulled off the no eyebrows look. 

Is that what makes him different? better? not human?

Maybe, but probably not. 

It's everything else that does. 

His beauty. 

His sound. 

His hair. 

The texture of his hair. 

The color of his hair. 

I fucking love his hair, okay?

The way he moves. 

The way he speaks. 

The way he laughs. 

The way he thinks. 

The way he feels. 

I cannot think about him dead, because to me, Bowie is above death. 

He is above life; above anything that humans could imagine. 

He cannot die; he is a god. He is not human. He was simply just here. He just graced us with his prescence. 

There was a period of time where I only listened to Starman. On repeat. 

This period lasted longer than a week. 

That's longer than my motion sickness by Pheobe Bridgers phase was. 

By a lot. 

But an image continued to grow and form in my mind as I listened to the breathtakingly other-worldly song more and more. 

An image of starman as David Bowie; hand outstretched; skin glowing; his body positioned so delicately and perfectly;

Like a patient with HIV; you breathe on it, you infect it. 

You can't breathe on Bowie; you'll ruin him. 

You can't touch Bowie; you'll ruin him. 

You can't make eye contact with Bowie; you'll ruin him. 

You can't talk to Bowie; you'll ruin him. 

To specify, this is all directly aimed at myself. Mick Jagger can breath, touch, make eye contact with, talk, fuck, blow, and brush the hair of Bowie.

Mick Jagger can do anything, but he can't ruin Bowie. 

He's just different. 

I used to feel like this about other people; and I still do, it's just not as pressing as the current topic; David Bowie. 

Why am I obsessed with David Bowie? 

So many reasons, most undetermined. 

But those reasons can always be tied back to how capitalism is bad and so is liberalism. 

But I don't want to tie it back. 

You can figure it out for yourself if you're really that interested. 

I can't tie it back, more importantly,

I can't tie it back because I don't want to ruin David's beauty with any of the disgusting and horrific issues of our time. 

I couldn't do that to Bowie. 

I love him too much. 

I couldn't do that to Bowie. 

I just couldn't. 

I love David Bowie. 

Did you know that I'm madly in love with David Bowie?