![]() ![]() ![]() Maybe that’s selfish, or provincial, or Minnesotan. My mind can’t square the fact that the Prince I knew - in my headphones, playing in front of me on stage all those nights, joking as he walked the halls of his studios - was the Prince everyone knew. How could I explain to anyone what it felt like to lose an icon that I also somehow viewed as a local treasure and respected as a human and a friend? But this was something different it was massive, but also oddly intimate. I’ve lost family members, and I’ve watched the people closest to me grapple with the deepest, darkest depths of loss. And somehow it didn’t occur to me until two days later, when I finally worked up the courage to go online and look through bleary eyes at the pictures of every recognizable landmark and statue across the globe glowing purple, that I’d been gazing up at the most well-known skyscraper in the world this whole time. It was like all we wanted was to climb up inside that building, to touch his star, to reach out and feel him as he drifted away. ![]() When Prince died, I felt it from the ground floor: in the welled-up eyes of my friends and colleagues who had just lost their hometown hero outside of Paisley Park as we all crumpled and in the bending, swaying mass of thousands of people who couldn’t seem to get close enough to First Avenue after the sun went down that night. For some reason I couldn’t stop staring at it, couldn’t stop thinking about how it applies to a whole blizzard of other thoughts that have been clouding my mind these days. ![]()
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