Blackstar, star star.

He was our Pierrot. So that we could be brave, and look into the sky at night and be in love with its immensity. We could love the moon and be in ourselves artists of any sort, and be free to be made fun of, and not to be scared to show ourselves as we are inside, full of yearning and colour and sadness and love.

To be close to something beautiful that we can’t explain. To have a place in the world, or the universe, or the fabric of things from the muck as much to the air.

To have grown up listening for the intake of breath on the track as the needle hits the vinyl.

To have had that.

The knowledge that there are others, that it might be possible.

The bravery of the maker of miniatures, who ‘understood that he had travelled a long way from the early days, that he still had far to go, and that, from now on, his life would be difficult and without forgiveness’ and who still carried on because creation what he wanted to do and it was worth it.

To leave with dignity and to leave us with the invitation that he’d given us from the start, you must create (if you want).

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