To some, he is The Kid. To others he is The Minneapolis Genius. To others still, he’s That Guy Who Ripped Me Off On That Last Tour Playing Condensed Songs From That Crummy Movie, Purple Rain, Which He Also Ripped Me Off On, Come To Think Of It.

To me, though, he is simply Prince. And I often dream of him.

Sometimes my dreams are simple (just Prince and myself talking) and other times they’re complex (Prince and myself playing checkers in Hell). In either case, they’re enriching beyond belief, for they give me a rare insight into a man I admire above all others. (It wouldn’t be going too far to say that I actually want to be Prince. I would settle, however, for Rex or “qood boy.”)

“So”—I pose your question for you— ‘‘what? He dreams about Prince. I do that myself, on occasion.” I beg to point out: my dreams are better than yours. Technically, they’re splendid, like a wellmade video. They’re informative. They bear every indication of being real.