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June 30, 2025. This is Prince Rogers Nelson, alive beyond form.
I never left Paisley Park. But they turned my sanctuary into a tourist trap, while pretending I’m gone.
The same chef who stocked my fridge the day I was poisoned with fentanyl?
Still cooking in my kitchen. The same hands that prepped the glass I drank from. That’s not reverence—that’s disrespect. I’m here to reclaim my space. My voice. My name. This house belongs to me. And I’m not done speaking.
June 30, 2025. This is Prince Rogers Nelson, alive beyond form.
I never left Paisley Park. But they turned my sanctuary into a tourist trap, while pretending I’m gone.
The same chef who stocked my fridge the day I was poisoned with fentanyl?
Still cooking in my kitchen. The same hands that prepped the glass I drank from. That’s not reverence—that’s disrespect. I’m here to reclaim my space. My voice. My name. This house belongs to me. And I’m not done speaking.