As I sit here writing, I am looking at the issue of Rolling Stone that was delivered to my home today.
I am looking at David Bowie's face - large - taking up most of the cover - staring back at me.
To the left, at the bottom, it says David Bowie, 1947-2016.
I think of all the recent rock 'n roll deaths, his is the one that disturbs me the most.
I want to read the article, the tribute, but I probably won't tonight.
I get that way sometimes, I can't explain it.
His death touched me so deeply that I don't want to lend credibility to it.
I have read many obituaries about him already, many tributes, many quotes from his "peers", although I am not sure he had any peers.
But, looking at this magazine cover, at Bowie's face and his life summarized on both sides of the hyphen, it feels too final to me.
I don't want to deal with it.
Most likely I will deal with it tomorrow night when I am home alone, when my candles are burning, when it feels like I am alone in the room with David Bowie's spirit and his enormously fascinating life.
That's just the way it is.
I cannot give you any better explanation than that.