“Who are you, Spirit?” I asked, trembling.
“The ghost of Bowie past,” it hissed.
A second shimmer emerged, coalescing into a sharp suit and a small fountain of hair. “You are …” I said, “the ghost of Bowie present,” he finished.
A third apparition shimmered at my feet. A long box, a suited figure inside. As I stared, its eyes popped open. “The ghost of Bowie future, I presume?” I said. “Future? I’m dead!” it replied.