You're alone in a dark room with the Queen of Hip-Hop. Back up. Rewind. There was light when you arrived; when you got here it was still before nightfall, and the New Jersey sky was the flat bluish-gray of an old fluorescent light. Riding in your car in the half-light, you came to a comfortable brick house on a comfortable, suburban, Truman Show-ish street; walking up, the door wasn't locked, it wasn't even closed, and it creaked open wider when you knocked. This ain't Compton, this ain't the Queensbridge projects, but this is where hip-hop lives in the 9-8: this is...
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