Jacko's dead!

A genius is dead, folks... rivers of ink will be used in the next days... the black who wished to be like his icon, Liz Taylor, the one who showed his son from a seven-storey hotel window, the bionic, the washed black, the pills eater, the friend and the foe of children, Peter Pan, they called him... the one who lived in an hyperbaric room, who always was fearsome of illness and people, as well... but, still no music-wise, Michael Jackson played with his body, his identity, his dream of himself like VERY few others; he had great ideas like purchasing The Beatles' full catalogue, which maybe he loose in the heavy last years, this man, the Man who invented the Avatar of himself, becoming a living legend before his death.

Now, when Death itself arrived, all was already accomplished... only the last detail missing, the phisical immolation of that poor, suffering, bleached body.

... but like with other greats who still and always will live of the music they created, the several masterpieces, the positive, universal feeling and message of childish love he, at least, tried to give to the World, ALL this corpus, from Thriller to The Eternity, from his moonwalk to his little screamings and penis hintings, will remain in the humanity radio waves, all his great songs for posterity.

At his place in the Valhalla of Rock, among the Greats, like an alien who landed on this little planet for a 50 years long minute, looking for just a glimpse of immortality.