Mr. Dylan, you’re in my art again

Bob Dylan in November 1963

The afterglow of the bulb overhead stains the fresh darkness. My eyes are glued open to witness it all.

Mr. Dylan, I finally understand why you had to step away. Goodwill and the poetry of observation from a young misfits experience are too easily dismissed or misconstrued. I am 24 rapidly approaching 25 looking for my motorcycle accident, my reinvention. The prejudgements of my peers and elders, their…