A young man crosses Barcelona with the frenzy of a compulsive libertine. He arrived eight years ago willing to conquer the world. He is in the city where who seeks finds. And our protagonist stumbles upon a web of passions, more or less induced, that he lives with an absolute unconsciousness and recklessness. His attempts to accept himself, to head for the desires of the womb, to fit in the ideal child that the mother dreamed of, to follow the paths where he gets lost again and again will end leading him to a waiting room. There, tests will be done to see if a venereal disease is circulating in his body. This little room will be a purgatory where to rethink the history of its brief existence, a technical inspection of body and soul. Here his bewilderment will turn into a a centrifuged calm.
The Day David Bowie Died is an exquisite corpse struggling between personal choices and bleach morality that is not external to us and that, in one way or another, we carry inside.