For almost a year now, I’ve owned a sealed copy of ★. I haven’t listened to it, not once. Somewhere between ordering it and receiving it, the unthinkable happened and the context of David Bowie’s final album changed in an instant.
Bowie knew what was coming – he always knew what was coming – so it soon became apparent that this wasn’t merely a collection of new songs. It was an end, a farewell, a sealed envelope on the pillow of a hospital bed. So when it finally arrived, I filed it away and took solace in denial – not prepared for whatever sadness, fear and mortality it might contain
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