Let me apologize before I begin: I am sorry it has taken me over two weeks to write this. Wait, no. Writing this should only cost me about thirty minutes; calming myself down enough to think and put words halfway coherently has taken much longer. I just cannot bring myself to believe that he is dead. Prince is dead? Wait a second: Prince is dead? Hold up. Prince can’t die. He’s immortal like the new-car smell of your uncle’s Eldorado. Like Bigmama’s greens and cornbread served Hellfire-hot after the second Sunday service. I know this might sound crazy but I fully expected Prince to live forever (and not just in his music). I mean for real forever, flesh and blood, bones and afro forever. The Coolest Dude Alive was supposed to make it to at least 107. He didn’t smoke or drink or curse so I laid back, prepared for his final concert live from some nursing home in Minnesota. Prince dead? No way. Not this time and not that time either. It was the 80’s and I was a sophomore in college and we heard The Artist had died. The news spread across the yard faster than herpes and when we heard it was just a hoax to get him out of his contract, we went back to class reassured that our god would never leave us. Our god. Now we are stunned. Pupils dilated. Belief suspended over coffee and urban radio stations willing to help us mourn, song after song. Prince is dead. Can you believe it? No. Neither can I.