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unlight is spilling through the wide windows at Wondaland West, Janelle Monáe’s rustic creative campus tucked in the hills above Hollywood, when Lucy Dacus takes her place on set. The two artists — in matching navy Thom Browne blazers — are sitting across from each other in worn leather armchairs, poring over the notes they’ve written down for today’s conversation. They are so focused that neither one has noticed the room has fallen silent, until the gentle hum of Dacus’ song “Ankles,” from her 2025 album, Forever Is a Feeling (recently re-released in expanded form), flutters through the air.

Dacus turns pink as she hears her own music and decides to break the silence. She leans forward, eyes lit with curiosity. “Who’s on your phone screen?” Dacus asks. Monáe lifts her phone slowly, almost ­reverently. The lock screen glows with a black-and-white portrait of a smoky-eyed Prince. “It’s been this for six or seven years now. I don’t know if I can ever change it,” Monáe says, bringing the phone closer to their heart.

It’s a quiet moment, but a revealing one. Both artists know what it means to hold on to something beloved: an influence, a feeling, a world of their own making. Monáe, with shimmering, sci-fi song cycles and Afrofuturist alter egos, has long built expansive universes in which queer Black liberation isn’t a fantasy — it’s the foundation. (As just one example, she recently revealed the full lineup for her eeriest Wondaween festival yet.) And Dacus, with slow-burning lyricism and diary-fragment songwriting, constructs entire emotional geographies connected by faith, heartbreak, memory, and grief. For more than an hour, they discuss fear, invention, and the pleasure of letting go in an intimate conversation that is braided with reverence and resonance. They talk as if they’ve met before — maybe not in this life, but in some shared frequency. But first, Monáe wants to know more about the opening line from Dacus’ breakthrough song, “Night Shift,” from her 2018 LP, Historian.