David Bowie is on the verge of death, invigorated by what life is left inside of him. He is part of a massive audience to a performance that won't ever start. He sits next to me. I touch his face, my hand rests on his cheek. His eyes are young and beautiful. He is clearly male and female. He tells me it's ok to be afraid. I tell him he's not the only one dying, we are all dying. We cry together. Love pours from both of us, from our fingers and eyes. I can see it trickle into the ether. He stands up and walks away to another row way in the back. I can't stop thinking about his face in my hands.