And if that wasn’t bad enough, 102 days after David Bowie left us, Prince vanished from the stage too. Twenty‑seven days later, a gorilla named Harambe became a cultural flashpoint. By mid‑year, 2016 felt cursed—like the needle slipped and the song of reality started to wobble. Gary Oldman’s quip lands because it fits the vibe: since Bowie’s exit, the world feels off its axis. The Thin White Duke wasn’t just a rock star; he was a stabilizer, a compass, a misfit patron saint. Blackstar read like a meticulously coded farewell. Decades earlier, he warned the internet would rewrite everything; he saw the storm coming while we were still dialing up. Coincidence? Probably. But the pattern is seductive. Some say the slide started long before; others insist Bowie didn’t die—he simply went home. Either way, we’re living in the afterglow of a supernova, and the lights look different now. We joke to cope. We mythologize to manage the ache. And as the feedback hum grows louder, one thought keeps looping: have we lost communication with Ground Control, or are we just learning to pilot the ship ourselves?