When the rock icons of our youth, the ones that enabled us to dance in ways that arthritis and other age-related ills now make forever impossible, it's like shattering a mirror of ourselves at that age.
A sexy Peter Pan crashing down mid flight, reminding us that we too are nearing our own descent - our incredibly aged Pied Piper dancing off the cliff ahead of us.
Peacefully - so we are told - surrounded by grand and great grandchildren (instead of hysterical fans) making it impossible to hold fast to that certainty of self. (Could Peter Pan ever have great-grandchildren?)
Not even one murmured "died too young", proves we are definitely on the same road.
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The most dangerous word in the language is "obvious"