David Bowie’s influence on the 20th and 21st centuries cannot be overstated. From psychedelic folk rock to glam rock, from plastic soul to avant-garde experimentation and electronic minimalism, Bowie’s relentless innovation and reinvention became one of the defining creative forces of modern music. His impact extended far beyond music, though, shaping fashion, performance art, film, gender identity, and even political discourse.
Throughout his career, Bowie demonstrated a rare ability to merge high art with pop accessibility. No matter how challenging or unconventional the style he explored, his songs remained emotionally resonant and strikingly melodic, inspiring generations of musicians and reshaping the cultural DNA of rock music as he went. His shape-shifting nature, which he often attributed to restlessness and boredom, established the modern archetype of the pop star as an ever-evolving cultural mirror: chameleonic, enigmatic, seductively alien, and constantly testing the limits of personal freedom and expression.
He created some of the most iconic songs and albums of the 1960s, ’70s, and ’80s from the theatrical brilliance of ‘The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’ to the experimental innovation of ‘Low’ and ‘Heroes’. His Berlin Trilogy not only redefined electronic rock but also became symbolically linked to the eventual fall of the Berlin Wall, with ‘Heroes’ serving as an anthem of unity and resilience.
Beyond music, Bowie was a visionary who foresaw the digital age’s creative and social potential. As one of the earliest major artists to embrace the internet, he launched BowieNet in the late 1990s, a pioneering online community that prefigured social media and digital fan interaction. Even in his final work, ‘Blackstar’, released just days before his death, Bowie continued to innovate, turning his farewell into a profound artistic statement that bridged music, mortality, and myth.
In terms of his impact and the output he released. I have to say he's the most important and arguably the greatest musician ever. Here are my ten favourite Bowie songs.
Released with no warning, on his 66th Birthday in 2013, 'Where Are We Now?' became the lead single from 'The Next Day' and was the first time Bowie had released material since 2003.
It garnered acclaim from music critics, many of whom praised the song's reflective lyrics and sombre quality, and deemed it a welcome return for the artist after a decade-long hiatus. It topped the iTunes charts in numerous countries and peaked at number six on the UK Singles Chart, making it Bowie's biggest hit since 'Absolute Beginners' in 1986.
Lyrically, ‘Where Are We Now?’ finds David Bowie looking back on his time in Berlin with understated melancholy and quiet defiance as if Bowie were gently lifting the curtain on his past. His voice, fragile yet dignified, drifts through the song like a ghost revisiting old haunts, the production sparse and haunting, evoking the drifting ambience of ‘Low’ and ‘Heroes’.
Bowie references a series of Berlin landmarks that map both a physical and emotional landscape:
“Sitting in the Dschungel / On Nürnberger Straße.”
The Dschungel, German for “jungle”, was not only one of West Berlin’s most famous nightclubs but also a hub of the city’s vibrant counterculture during the late 1970s, when Bowie lived and recorded there. You can almost hear him sing the word “Dschungel” with a knowing wink, recalling nights spent among artists, outsiders, and the restless energy of a city divided yet creatively alive.
He also remembers the KaDeWe, the grand department store near the zoo in West Berlin; Potsdamer Platz, once a no-man’s-land between East and West and now a symbol of reunification; and Bösebrücke, the bridge in Prenzlauer Berg that became one of the first border crossings to open when the Berlin Wall fell.
In ‘Where Are We Now?’, Bowie contemplates the passage of time, the fragility of memory, and the strange persistence of identity. The refrain “Where are we now?” feels at once intimate and universal, as if Bowie is addressing not only his past self but all of us, lost in the blur between who we were and who we’ve become.
The unexpected nature of the song adds to the Bowie mystique. Not one for a huge fanfare, it made the comeback even more special. However, it's not just nostalgia for nostalgia's sake. The song is a real career highlight and a reflective moment for Bowie. His time in Berlin was one of the most pivotal times of his career, and at the end of the 20th century, Berlin went through a pivotal time of its own. 'Where Are We Now?' is a comparison between the Berlin of the 2010s and the Berlin of the 1970s.
An exceptional song.
The third single from his 1983 album ‘Let’s Dance’ saw David Bowie collaborate with Nile Rodgers of Chic to craft a sleek, rhythm-driven new wave anthem. The track ‘Modern Love’ was a commercial triumph, peaking at number two on the UK Singles Chart and reaching number 14 on the US Billboard Hot 100.
Recorded early in the ‘Let’s Dance’ sessions, the song emerged from a simple but decisive conversation between Bowie and Rodgers, in which Bowie famously challenged him to “make [a] great commercial record.” The result was a bold reinvention: Bowie stepping away from the experimental art-rock of the late ’70s Berlin era and into the brightly lit world of 1980s pop, filtered through Rodgers’ sharp funk sensibilities.
Rodgers later described ‘Modern Love’ as “an old barrelhouse rocker with a real pounding Little Richard–type piano, while on top it has a very sophisticated jazz horn sound.” This fusion of raw rock ’n’ roll energy and polished pop sophistication became one of the defining hallmarks of the ‘Let’s Dance’ album. Rodgers would later name the track as one of his personal favourites from their collaboration.
Musically, ‘Modern Love’ was a statement of reinvention, stripped-back and rhythmically propulsive; it showcased Bowie’s ability to inhabit a new sonic world without losing his individuality. Lyrically, the song explores faith, love, and the search for meaning in a modern world increasingly defined by disconnection. Beneath its exuberant hooks and joyful energy lies a streak of existential doubt.
It's one of the first Bowie songs that I ever fell in love with; it quite simply had to make the list.
Often seen as a spiritual successor to The Kinks’ ‘Dedicated Follower of Fashion’, David Bowie’s ‘Fashion’ offers a far sharper and more unsettling commentary on style and conformity in the modern age. Whereas The Kinks’ 1960s satire was light-hearted and affectionate, Bowie’s 1980 vision is darker and more cynical, a biting send-up of a scene he saw as regimented and self-absorbed. The sneering refrain, “We are the goon squad and we’re coming to town,” frames the fashion world not as a haven of individuality but as a uniformed army of trend-chasers, all marching to the same beat. The song’s sharp rhythmic commands “Turn to the left, turn to the right” reinforce that sense of mechanical obedience, blurring the line between catwalk choreography and military drill.
Although Bowie insisted that ‘Fashion’ was not intended as a political statement, many listeners and critics have interpreted it as one. The language of control, conformity, and “fascists” suggests a critique of how cultural movements can ossify into hierarchies of power, where rebellion becomes style, and style becomes another form of control. As with much of Bowie’s work, ‘Fashion’ operates simultaneously on multiple levels: a dancefloor anthem, a cultural satire, and a self-aware reflection on Bowie’s own role as a trendsetter in an ever-changing industry.
‘Fashion’ was the final track completed during the sessions for Bowie’s fourteenth studio album, ‘Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)’, released in 1980. The album followed the groundbreaking 'Berlin Trilogy', ‘Low’ (1977), ‘Heroes’ (1977), and ‘Lodger’ (1979), all produced in collaboration with Brian Eno. While those albums were critically revered, their experimental nature kept them just outside mainstream commercial success. With ‘Scary Monsters’, Bowie set out to merge his avant-garde instincts with a more accessible, radio-friendly sound.
The song’s origins are unexpectedly playful: it began as a reggae pastiche titled ‘Jamaica’. While traces of that rhythm remain in the syncopated groove and clipped guitar lines, ‘Fashion’ ultimately evolved into a taut fusion of new wave, post-punk, dance, and funk. Its angular guitars, sharp drum patterns, and Robert Fripp’s searing lead lines give the track a nervy, propulsive energy reminiscent of ‘Golden Years’ from 1975.
Beyond its biting social critique, ‘Fashion’ also captures Bowie’s ongoing fascination with transformation, not just of self, but of style, sound, and society. It’s both a mirror and a warning: a dazzling dance track that asks, with characteristic irony, whether we’re truly moving forward or just marching in circles.
'Hunky Dorky' is often considered by many as the best Bowie album, and 'Life on Mars' is that record's magnum opus. Conceived as a parody of Frank Sinatra's 'My Way', 'Life on Mars?' was recorded on 6 August 1971 at Trident Studios in London, and was co-produced by Bowie and Ken Scott. The track features piano by the keyboardist Rick Wakeman and a string arrangement by the guitarist Mick Ronson.
A glam rock effort, with elements of cabaret and art rock. The lyrics are about a girl who goes to a cinema to escape reality, and include surreal images that reflect optimism and the effects of Hollywood. In 1997, he said, "I think she finds herself disappointed with reality ... that although she's living in the doldrums of reality, she's being told that there's a far greater life somewhere, and she's bitterly disappointed that she doesn't have access to it."
The song is considered by many as one of Bowie's best songs, and it appears high in rankings of his songs. Critics have praised Bowie's vocal performance and the string arrangement. The song has appeared in films and television programmes, and the British television series Life on Mars was named after it.
I'll leave you with the thoughts of Alexis Petridis: "A no-further-questions masterpiece, bolstered by Ronson’s fantastic string arrangement, Life On Mars?’s confusing gush of images almost defies explication, but might well be Bowie’s first clarion call to suburban misfits. It says a lot about the sheer power of its melody that a song so lyrically impenetrable has become so widely loved."
A song that was never released as a single, yet one that would come to define his most famous creation. From the very first line, “Ziggy played guitar”, Bowie sets the scene with cinematic precision. Backed by Mick Ronson’s searing guitar work and one of the most recognisable riffs in rock history, Bowie paints the portrait of Ziggy Stardust: a flamboyant, bisexual alien rock star who becomes the earthly messenger for extraterrestrial beings.
Around this time, Bowie fully inhabited the Ziggy persona, blurring the line between performance and reality in a way that no one else had quite done before. The character drew partial inspiration from English rock ’n’ roll singer Vince Taylor, whom Bowie had met after Taylor’s mental breakdown. Taylor believed himself to be a cross between a god and an alien, a tragic but fascinating figure who left a lasting impression on Bowie. Yet Ziggy was more than just a reflection of one man; he was a collage of influences, from the doomed rock idols of the 1960s to the futuristic glamour of Japanese fashion and the raw sexuality of Iggy Pop.
Bowie told Rolling Stone that the name “Ziggy” was “one of the few Christian names I could find beginning with the letter Z.” Later, in a 1990 interview with Q magazine, he elaborated that the name had also come from a tailor’s shop called Ziggy’s, which he passed while on a train. He liked the coincidence and the subtle link to Iggy Pop. “This whole thing is gonna be about clothes,” he said with typical wit, “so it was my own little joke calling him Ziggy.” In the end, Ziggy Stardust became a perfect amalgam of Bowie’s recurring themes: identity, reinvention, fame, and self-destruction.
The song ‘Ziggy Stardust’ sits at the heart of the album ‘The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’, serving as the narrative and emotional anchor for the entire work. It captures the rise and fall of a messianic rock star whose brilliance burns too bright to last.
Even though it was never released as a single, ‘Ziggy Stardust’ became one of Bowie’s most enduring and defining songs — a track that encapsulated not just a character, but an era. It was the moment where rock music, theatre, and performance art collided, and Bowie emerged as something entirely new.
On 6th July 1972, David Bowie and Ziggy Stardust were beamed into the living rooms of millions. His Top of the Pops performance of ‘Starman’ wasn’t just another TV appearance; it was a seismic cultural moment. This wasn’t like The Beatles conquering America on The Ed Sullivan Show; that was triumphant. Bowie’s moment, by contrast, seemed to arrive out of nowhere: strange, seductive, and utterly transformative.
By the summer of ’72, Bowie wasn’t merely an unknown; he was a has-been in the eyes of many. A former one-hit wonder whose ‘Space Oddity’ had risen and fallen with the 1969 moon landing, then left him adrift for years. Three years was an eternity in pop. Yet in that wilderness period, over a string of singles that failed to chart, Bowie had been quietly reinventing himself. Through a run of extraordinary albums, ‘The Man Who Sold the World’, ‘Hunky Dory’, and the newly released ‘The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars’, he had transformed into a one-man vision of the future.
At 9:20 pm on 6th July, Bowie reintroduced himself to Britain not as a man, but as a myth. Dressed in an eye-popping quilted jumpsuit, red boxing boots laced in green, and clutching a blue 12-string acoustic, he wore a sly, knowing half-smile that suggested he understood exactly what he was about to unleash.
Beside him, Mick Ronson shimmered like a golden Adonis in a sparkling one-piece and matching Gibson Les Paul. When ‘Starman’s' first verse closed, Bowie casually draped his arm around Ronson’s shoulder, the gesture loaded with effortless intimacy and subversion. It was just a moment, but in that moment, the world tilted.
Then came the real lightning strike: the second verse, when Bowie turned directly to the camera and pointed down the lens, “I had to phone someone, so I picked on you.” It shattered the fourth wall, as if Ziggy were reaching straight into the nation’s front rooms. For the older generation, it was too much, too suggestive, too strange, too other. But for the youth of 1970s Britain, it was a revelation. Something shifted.
As the second chorus soared, Bowie wrapped his arm around Ronson again, lingering longer this time, just in case anyone had missed the provocation, or the invitation.
For countless teenagers watching that night, it was a moment of musical, sexual, and cultural significance. A signal that the future had arrived, glittering and fearless.
That performance didn’t just launch a song; it detonated a movement. From that point on, nothing in British pop would ever look, sound, or feel the same again.
‘Starman’ is quite possibly the most important Bowie release. It was the song that transformed him from a cult figure into a bona fide star, the bridge between the underground and the mainstream. More than just a hit single, ‘Starman’ introduced the world to Ziggy Stardust and with him, a new kind of pop hero: androgynous, alien, and utterly magnetic. It captured Bowie at the precise moment he found his voice and his vision, distilling everything that made him extraordinary into four minutes of melody, mystery, and hope.
For many, ‘Starman’ was a beacon, a song that told a generation of outsiders they weren’t alone. Its soaring chorus, the cosmic message beamed “through the radio,” felt like a lifeline to those who didn’t fit the mould of early ’70s Britain. In one track, Bowie gave pop music permission to be strange, theatrical, and profound and in doing so, changed what a rock star could be.
Bowie is well known for his personas, Ziggy Stardust and The Thin White Duke, but also littered throughout his songs are characters, the most famous of these being Major Tom. We first heard about Major Tom in 1969, in the single 'Space Oddity'. Upon its original release, the song was used by the BBC as background music for the Apollo 11 Moon landing. It received critical praise, and yet sold poorly initially. Eventually, the song reached number five in the UK. Reissues by RCA Records became Bowie's first US hit in 1972, and his first UK number-one in 1975.
In 1980, he'd revisit the Major Tom story, and with 'Ashes to Ashes' he'd get his second Number One single on the UK Singles Chart.
The song acts as the sequel to Space Oddity; we find out that Major Tom has succumbed to drug addiction and floats isolated in space. Bowie partially based the lyrics on his own experiences with drug addiction throughout the 1970s.
In the song's lyrics, it picks up straight where 'Space Oddity' had left off.f Ground Control receives a message from Major Tom, who has succumbed to drug addiction and increased paranoia following his abandonment to space: "Strung out in heaven's high / hitting an all-time low. Ground Control are not keen on the astronaut's reappearance – "Oh no, don't say it's true" – and pretends that he is fine.
The astronaut reflects on his life and hopes for the future, and wishes he could break free from his "caged psyche"
His pleas are disregarded by the public, leading him to proclaim that he has "never done good things", has "never done bad things", and "never did anything out of the blue".
The song ends with the nursery rhyme lines "My mother said / to get things done / you'd better not mess with Major Tom"
Described by the artist as "a story of corruption", Bowie wanted to see where Major Tom ended up in the 1970s. We come to him 10 years later and find the whole thing has soured, because there was no reason for putting him up there ... [So] the most disastrous thing I could think of is that he finds solace in some kind of heroin-type drug, actually cosmic space feeding him: an addiction.
The song is one of Bowie's signature efforts, a culmination of all of the things that made him great. The Guardian's Alexis Petridis said the song represents a moment in his catalogue where "the correct response is to stand back and boggle in awe", because "everything about it – [its] lingering oddness of its sound, its constantly shifting melody and emotional tenor, its alternately self-mythologising and self-doubting lyrics – is perfect"
It's also the song that brought the end to one of the maddest decades of Bowie's life. He'd put to bed the story of Major Tom, he'd left Berlin following the Berlin Trilogy 'Low', 'Heroes' and 'Lodger', he'd exhausted his work with Brian Eno. The personas had been retired, the world expected another persona, another Ziggy Stardust, another Thin White Duke. What he gave them was the opposite. This was the sound of David Bowie.
Bowie himself described his thought process behind the release of 'Ashes to Ashes, ' calling the song "the end of something," adding, "I was wrapping up the '70s really for myself, and that seemed a good enough epitaph for it, that we've lost Major Tom, he's out there somewhere, we'll leave him be."
The Berlin period is often regarded as Bowie’s creative peak, and ‘Low’ is frequently cited by critics and fans alike as the defining album of that era. It marked a turning point: a retreat from the excesses of fame and addiction, and a bold leap into sonic experimentation. ‘Sound and Vision’, its most accessible moment, stands as the closest thing to a pop song on the record and yet, like everything from those sessions, it remains entirely unconventional.
Released as the album’s first single in February 1977, ‘Sound and Vision’ was recorded between the Château d’Hérouville in France and Hansa Studios in West Berlin.
What began as a simple G major chord sequence evolved into something strikingly original. Bowie handed the basic framework to his band, letting them develop the instrumental textures before he added his vocals much later. The result was a song that blurred the line between experimentation and pure pop instinct. Brian Eno’s unmistakable touch is felt in the synth textures and backing harmonies, while producer Tony Visconti’s then-wife, Mary Hopkin, lends a ghostly sweetness to the wordless refrain.
Structurally, ‘Sound and Vision’ is unlike anything else in Bowie’s catalogue. The track unfolds gradually, beginning as a near-instrumental piece that builds in layers of synths, drums, and fragments of melody before Bowie’s voice finally enters more than a minute and a half in. His lyrics, sparse and introspective, reveal a man retreating inward: “Blue, blue, electric blue / That’s the colour of my room, where I will live.” They hint at isolation and recovery, the quiet aftermath of chaos. Yet, paradoxically, the music itself feels luminous, even joyful.
A three-minute single with no vocals until halfway through, ‘Sound and Vision’ defied every rule of pop songwriting and still became a hit. It turns melancholy into momentum, transforming personal withdrawal into something radiant and timeless. It’s completely of its moment, yet sounds like it could belong to any era. In that sense, it captures Bowie’s essence perfectly: eternally restless, deeply human, and forever looking beyond the horizon.
Within the context of the Berlin Trilogy, ‘Sound and Vision’ represents both retreat and renewal. Across ‘Low’, ‘“Heroes”’ and ‘Lodger’, Bowie used sound as a form of self-therapy, stripping away the noise of fame and excess to rediscover something honest beneath. These albums, created in collaboration with Brian Eno and Tony Visconti, distilled isolation, fragmentation and rebirth into sound. Berlin itself became a metaphor for Bowie’s state of mind: a divided city for a divided self. ‘Sound and Vision’ sits at the heart of that transformation. A song of solitude that somehow radiates hope. It’s the moment where Bowie stopped running from himself and instead began to listen, quietly, to what remained.
The lead single from the 1983 album of the same name, ‘Let’s Dance’, became one of David Bowie’s most commercially successful songs, topping charts across the world, including both the UK and the US. It marked a striking shift in direction, a move away from the avant-garde experimentation of his Berlin years toward a more radio-friendly, accessible sound that would come to define much of the decade.
Yet ‘Let’s Dance’ didn’t begin life as a glossy dance track. When Bowie first wrote it, the song had more of a folk-rock feel, introspective and restrained. Nile Rodgers, fresh from his work with Chic, immediately saw its potential as something bigger and bolder. Taking Bowie’s skeletal demo, Rodgers reimagined it as an exuberant, rhythm-driven anthem, layering funk-infused grooves, punchy horns, and crisp percussion. He recruited a new band of musicians unfamiliar with Bowie’s past work, including a then-unknown Texas guitarist named Stevie Ray Vaughan, whose blistering blues solos added a raw, soulful edge that perfectly offset the song’s sleek production.
Musically, ‘Let’s Dance’ is a masterclass in fusion, blending rock, funk, post-disco, new wave, and pop into something uniquely Bowie. The seven-minute album version is particularly dynamic, filled with instrumental flourishes: trumpet, saxophone, guitar, and percussion all weaving in and out of Rodgers’ taut basslines and driving rhythm guitar. Some of the song’s key elements, the bouncing bass groove and the playful breakdown, draw directly from Rodgers’ work with Chic, while the ascending vocal lines were inspired by The Beatles’ take on ‘Twist and Shout’.
Lyrically, Bowie invites the listener to “put on your red shoes and dance the blues”, a perfect encapsulation of joy tinged with melancholy, of beauty shot through with something darker. Beneath the pop sheen lies a subtle tension: an artist both celebrating and questioning the glossy, material world of the 1980s that he was now helping to shape.
Bowie’s ’80s output would prove uneven, but with ‘Let’s Dance, both the single and the album, he achieved one of his most brilliant reinventions. The track stands as one of the finest pop songs of the decade: nervier, sharper, and stranger than most of its chart contemporaries. Even at his most commercial, Bowie remained unmistakably Bowie, always a step ahead.
'Heroes' is more than just a song; it's a pivotal chapter in the story of the man who wrote it, an anthem of hope and defiance born from the divided streets of Cold War Berlin, and after a live performance in 1987, it became a spark that would help change the world.
In the mid-1970s, David Bowie was in crisis. His struggle with drug addiction in Los Angeles had led to personal turmoil, and his music was veering toward the chaos of fame’s darker side. Seeking refuge, Bowie fled to Berlin, a city divided by the Berlin Wall, where East and West Germany stood as tense symbols of the Cold War. He moved into a modest apartment with Iggy Pop, his friend and collaborator, and began to reinvent himself. Moving away from the excess of LA to a rather more grounded life. He lived on a normal street, in a normal apartment and got to work on making music, and work he did. Bowie made three albums in Berlin, including 'Heroes'
Berlin was both physically and metaphorically split, a living reminder of humanity's divisions. But for Bowie, it also represented a place of renewal. It was gritty, raw, and alive with underground art scenes. His time in Berlin would allow him to reset, and it was here, at Hansa Studios, near the Wall itself, that he crafted some of his most experimental work.
Written and recorded with longtime collaborator Brian Eno and producer Tony Visconti, 'Heroes' emerged from a jam session. The music itself was built on layers of synthetic sounds, Eno’s ambient influences mixing with Bowie’s melodic sensibilities. The song’s driving rhythm and shimmering guitar lines came courtesy of Robert Fripp, whose distinctive style gave the track an otherworldly yet urgent feel. Bowie was surrounding himself with the very best musicians and focusing on making great music again. The heart of 'Heroes' is its story, a tale of two lovers meeting at the Berlin Wall, defying the world around them for a fleeting moment of togetherness.
The lyrics, "We can be heroes, just for one day," capture the bittersweet essence of their love: a brief, beautiful act of defiance against the harsh reality of their world. Bowie himself later revealed that the inspiration for the song came from witnessing a couple, his producer Tony Visconti and a mystery woman, kissing by the Wall. In that moment, Bowie saw the possibility of transcendence, even in the most oppressive circumstances. The power of love seemed to override everything else that was happening. As the city was divided, this couple became united.
'Heroes' wasn’t just a love song; it was a symbol of hope. Released during a time when the world was gripped by fear and division, the track resonated far beyond Berlin. Its message, one of fleeting heroism in the face of overwhelming odds, spoke to the human condition itself. People everywhere understood the longing for freedom, for connection, for love in a world that often seems bent on destruction.
Though the song didn't initially become a massive commercial success, over the years, 'Heroes' has grown into one of Bowie’s most enduring works.
When Bowie performed it in 1987, in front of the Reichstag in West Berlin, it became a rallying cry for unity. East Berliners gathered on the other side of the Wall, drawn by Bowie’s voice, It has been said that the speakers were turned slightly so it could be heard in the East Side of the city, an soon those people began to sing and some say that the emotional power of that performance played a small part in the momentum that led to the Wall’s fall two years later in 1989.
Bowie also called out to those on the other side of the wall just before playing 'Heroes;
“We send our best wishes to all of our friends who are on the other side of the wall,” said Bowie.
It led to over 200 East Berliners charging at the wall, resulting in arrests and beatings. Demonstrations broke out, and it became one of the numerous acts of civil unrest that would lead to the fall of the wall in 1989 and the subsequent fall of the Iron Curtain.
As Bowie sings in the song’s final moments, his voice rising over the insistent pulse of the music, “We can be us, just for one day.” It’s a reminder that sometimes, in our briefest acts of courage, we become more than ourselves. We become heroes.
Thank you for reading
Jack