Somewhere in the world in the early 1990s there was a woman who adored Prince so much that she sent him a gift: a purple and pink afghan that she knitted herself. She mailed it to Prince at Paisley Park Studios in Minnesota. My brother worked there at the time.
One of the Paisley Park staff opened the package and pulled out the bulky afghan. He carried it through the building on his way to the trash bin when my brother intercepted him, got the story about the origin of this gift, and offered to take the afghan. He imagined how much work had gone into the knitting (having received one from our grandma) and he didn’t want to think about all that work lying in the bottom of the Dumpster.
He gave it to me and that’s why there’s a cat sleeping here on a purple and pink afghan every day. What is the lesson here? That if I have a Prince story, everyone in the world has a Prince story.