of this corridor
hollow and hellish
with no air to
He spent his night bouncing from bar to bar, seeing various shows and checking in with plastic people in the dim glow of strobe and neon. No one would have suspected what was to happen in the coming hours. His head was a depressed tempest. In the haze of early morning, he emptied three bottles of sleeping pills, arranged them chaotically in a blue pile on a white plate, stood the bottles dramatically on the plate, forcing the mass of little blue bullets into a forward station.
In time, he will be dearly remembered by few, unfortunately forgotten by many, his legacy left to wither in the corrosive winds of tomorrow.
He left a body of work to represent himself, a global network of respectful fans to mourn the passing of his flesh. He exited with a sad, cryptic and powerful cry down the corridor of his life, one final, primal scream to carry his memory across the ages and spaces and hearts, a voice self-silenced too soon, artistic potential surrendered to the grand escape.
Few probably know why he did what he did. I surely don’t. I choose to not know, to accept that he felt his exit necessary and to appreciate the echoes he left behind. I understand this is the way of the creator–some stars burn out of light and life fast and furious; others have enough internal combustion to power through endless cycles of inflation and deflation, expansion and recession, life and death.
The cerulean image of the plate and the pills is still burned in my mind, his curt exit epitaph still reverberating in my soul. That synthetic array is the lasting image I have of him, but his sound will always echo throughout the empty hallways of this creative chamber, providing aural purpose to the king of these virtually impossible dreams.