It sat on the front porch, propped against the jam of the door to stay away from the gusts of snow. I had ordered it weeks ago, and while it was meant to arrive on Friday, Amazon emailed to say it had been delayed due to unforeseen circumstances. So here it was, finally, on a cold Monday evening in January. I had ordered Blackstar by David Bowie when he was alive, and instead of arriving on his 69th birthday as planned, it appeared less than a day after he died of cancer, a final epitaph rather than a new release. People came up to me at work today to shake my hand and tell me that they were sorry for my loss. My wife was kind enough to call me on my way to work, breaking the news to me before the clock struck 7am. A musician and actor and dancer and producer and so much more, dead of cancer like so many others, but so unlike any other. As I went through today's motions of preparation and conversation, I was drawn to a lyric from Blackstar that was so prescient as to be archly fu