He wasn’t a rock star in a traditional meaning either (well, everybody knows those adored handsome guys following the sex, drugs and rock-n-roll motto). he didn’t earn a fortune of money and never grew vain. His fans found something disarming about his kind and easy-going manners, and everyone would sense something so familiar in his songs. He didn’t want to be famous worldwide and wasn’t obsessed with fame, he knew that it was a delusive thing.
Now, hurrying to meet his fans (who were certainly the best fans in the world, he thought) at a charity concert, he thought about the legacy he wanted to leave: not because he was going to die, not at all. It was in his nature, this desire to be useful to the society, and he had so many plans and so many purposes. Miles wanted to communicate his message to people.
“The legacy and the message,” he thought. “That’s what makes artists live forever in the minds of people. But is it enough? Is it enough to write a couple of mediocre songs? Guys like me are not starry enough to get themselves listened to.”
If he shared these thoughts with his wife, she would surely say that he was too modest and underestimated his significance. Well, he did. The cellphone rang – it was Steve, the concert manager (he always communicated with all the staff himself). Miles picked up the call with his right hand, holding the driving wheel with the left one.
The car lost traction on the icy turn and ran against the truck. The collision set the Range Rover afire. Everything was blurred in his eyes, and the last thing he saw before he fell into darkness was the strange fiery bird of red and gold hovering above him.
Miles found himself standing near the cathedral of his hometown amidst the overwhelming crowd of grieving people dressed in black. The weather was lousy, cold rain falling from the leaden clouds.