I could let go of any other artist, if I had to do so. I could imagine a different vector of existence, one without Elvis or Bob or Prince. Music would be impoverished in that vector, but it would still be music.

But I listen to music through you and always have. You are fully underneath me. You entirely root the listener I am. Quibbles about the quality of your work, or the wisdom of your mercurial, often bitter thrashing under the harsh light of ultra–celebrity, these cannot diminish you for me.

My beloved mother was for your pARTner. I, though, am for you. Working class or not, we need heroes. Feet of clay or not, you are my hero.