I had showed up at Freddie Mercury's home without a pen, which was OK because I found it so meditative just to read the dedications of others. Underneath the familiar serif type on that familiar green door that had been repainted over and over again, someone had written in a black sharpie, "Because you don't know what it means to me".
Freddie's door was filled with lyrical references, but I had never seen Love of My Life reframed in such a way. It seemed to sum up the powerlessness of standing there, attempting to honour such a significant musical presence. In light of this dedication, each scrap of paper, each line in liquid paper seemed to echo the same sentiment: "This was so important, but no one seems to understand..."