You never imagined that a single record could change the course of your life. You recorded it with your heart, almost like a secret thrown into the world, a character you invented to give voice to everything you would never dare to say as yourself. And yet, someone listened. Someone you never thought would set their eyes and ears on you.

David Bowie.

The first time he wrote to you was almost absurd. How did he know your name? How had he gotten your number? “I found it,” he wrote simply, as if destiny were just an open address book. He spoke about your record with a passion that disarmed you. Every word of his seemed to dissect your creation, uncovering layers you didn’t even know existed.

And then he confessed:

—You’re my favorite alter ego.

You froze. Bowie saying that to you? The man who had created entire worlds, immortal characters like Ziggy Stardust or the Thin White Duke, now looked at your creation as if it were a mirror of his own. It placed you in a strange space: pride and fear all at once.

What surprised you most was his nervousness. He repeated it to you again and again:

—I can’t believe you didn’t make more music. How… how could you stop with so much talent?