It lived in the threshold between the fancy and the reality. Fugitive of itself exactly, materialized in the body, the ghosts that haunted its tortured soul. The human being lost to the force of the myth. A brilliant artist, but a man failed to meet in one to want to be ' ' Peter Pan' ' , while the life brought it one ' ' overdose' ' of reality: forcene infancy, collecting scandals, the attack of the explorers, the embriagus of the artifices, destroying the health, not to accept Michael Jackson died, kept silent it voice that packed generations. The romantic ballads, ' had been silent; ' black music' ' , ' ' pop rock' '. It flied for ' ' Land of the Nunca' ' , never more to come back.
Its art is its great legacy. The remaining portion, will be devorado by the vultures of the greed, the parasites of the maledicncia, the merchants of the mediocrity, the worms of the opportunism It follows in peace Michael. That finally you if find, finds the light and in it if it illuminates. That one real joy renews it the spirit and, in the infinite, you can dance as never and as never to sing, to be capable of to inspire to the artists daqui. Good trip!