"Bowie," I said.
"Call me David," he replied.
"David, is this real ife?"
He replied, "Oh yes, my lovely, it is all so real."
I was a bit puzzled at his expression, he looked so sad as he said this.
A rope came down with "I need you" written on it.
I grasped the rope and it whisked me up to Bowie and we both smiled.
Then we were in an airport and Bowie totally vanished. I began to get very upset and wept.
I went inside a photo booth and all in a fantastic spark Bowie's hands grabbed me (I knew they were his. I know them like I know my face in the mirror in the mornings.)
When I feel his hair it feels sort of wet - sort of oily. Just like it's got a load of cream in it or something. And sometimes it's so soft and you run your fingers through it and your fingers just slip off his head, you know, like it's that soft you can't keep hold of it ...
- Starlust, The Secret Fantasies of Fans by Fred and Judy Vermorel (Comet, 1985)
Just when I think there's nothing better than the Barry Manilows, I read the Bowies.