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Tony Visconti, who produced Blackstar, confirmed what we Bowiekids already knew: he created and timed the release of his final album as his last gift for his fans. 

“He made Blackstar for us, a parting gift,” Visconti said. “I knew for a year this was the way it would be. I wasn’t, however, prepared for it. He was an extraordinary man, full of love and life. He will always be with us. For now, it is appropriate to cry.”

I held it together when I raced out of my bedroom and announced the news to my family in the middle of the night, but once I was curled up with Teeny on my lap, I started crying and couldn’t stop. That may seem like a melodramatic reaction to some of you, and that’s fine. Maybe it is. 

But maybe it isn’t.

My first concrete memory of David Bowie was the movie Labyrinth. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to marry Jareth or if I just wanted to be him. That was the magic of Bowie. I saw the movie a few years after its 1986 release, so I must have been around five or six at the time, but I was hooked from then on. Some kids outgrow the artists they listened to as children once they get older, but my love for Bowie only strengthened. 

When I was happy, I listened to Bowie. When I was sad, I listened to Bowie. When my grandmother died, Halloween Jack kept me company during my angriest moments. When I lost my spark writing an essay an hour before the deadline, Ziggy Stardust inspired me. 

It isn’t an unusual story. In fact, it’s the same story every Bowiekid will tell you. “He made me feel less alone. He made me feel like it was okay to be different. He made me feel like someone, somewhere really cared.”

And he did. 

He cared enough to say goodbye to us. He cared enough to thank us, as he always did, for loving him. 

Thank you, and you’re welcome. 

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