Whitney. Amy. Micheal: There is a serial killer in town.

Whitney is dead. Micheal died. Amy died. Undone by the common denominator. Would it have been better if we did not known them? Then it wouldn’t matter that another junkie just died?

 

But Amy was young, gifted, talented. And gone far too soon. To what do we attribute blame? Freedom? Love? Money? She had a gift. To some, she had a responsibility, and with that, no right to destroy herself. No right to embrace it so well.

 

Whitney. Your voice gave me goosebumps. It still does. I listen to your songs. The pure skill, the pure joy. You touched the essence of me. Your voice tingled, floated, glided over my skin like an invisible caress. My eyes tingle, and i wish you hadn’t forgotten all about your freedom. The girl you used to be. That skinny young lady. With the big hair and voice that poured delight, compassion, sound, sweetness and power into us. Why did you forget? Why did you let him rob you of your memories? What refuge did the substances afford you that the love of the world around you did not? What!

 

Accident or not, deliberate or not, stupidity in the casualness of it all, you are gone. Lost to us now. Taking your voice with you. Your goodness, your growth.

 

I still cry for you, Micheal. Oh, Micheal. How can i not? You were a light in this world. A star so bright in the sky. You goodness was draped over those that loved you, like mist. Love you, we did. With an obsession most unbecoming, a righteous fever that you had no right to inspire. But inspire you did. Loyalty. Blindness. Crazy.

 

We prayed for you, Micheal. We prayed that the world wouldn’t hurt you that badly. We prayed you could recover. Forget about the scandals and crawl back out of that dark hole we sent you. It was hard. I imagine it was. You could not have forseen how fast it could change. You were unprepared. You trusted in love. But it doesn’t work that way. We are only human. Love can turn to hate when tried. And you tested the loyalties. You could have been more mature. You could have recovered faster.

 

I miss Micheal Jackson the most. Because he died disillusioned, and that is a hard thing for any person. We wanted too much. Much more than you had to give. We lost you because of it.

 

Rest in peace Micheal, Amy, Whitney. Until the serial killer gets the next one.

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