David Bowie sat on the edge of a long white sofa in the roof garden of a Casablanca hotel. Behind, a low wall separated him from the city skyline. Glowing paper lanterns swung in the warm evening breeze. His smart linen suit and collared shirt matched the white of the sofa. Sweat on his forehead glistened in the light from his iPhone screen as he leaned forward to talk. He sipped a red cocktail through a straw. A Negroni I guessed.
More mundanely, I sat at the computer in our spare bedroom.
He was witty, interesting and interested. Conversation flowed easily. He even laughed at my jokes. It was my dream after all. I’m allowed to be funny.
He spoke loudly over the background chatter of other hotel guests and honking horns from the street below.
It’s frustrating I can’t recall the details of our conversation. But that’s often the way with dreams.
He laughed as he threw back his head, lost his balance, tipped backwards and fell from the sofa forcing his legs, and linen pants, upwards into a momentary ‘V’ shape. In a moment so cinematic I almost expected a credit sequence to follow, he and the rope soles of his espadrilles disappeared over the edge of the building.
The long white sofa was empty now. The background chatter and car horns seemed louder than before.
I stared at the computer screen. Transfixed. David Bowie was dead and I was the only witness.
This dream was the night of 8th/9th January 2016.
Bowie actually died 10th January 2016.
Did I predict his death?
David Bowie seemed otherworldly. Always up there somewhere. Just out of reach. Was he ever really one of us anyway? If he was never here has he really gone? RIP.