I cried this afternoon watching Dylan at Newport ’63 thru ’65 - and I’m not sure why. Not sure which why I should say. So much time passing. So many beautiful words. Gone sharing faces and places connected to them. The clarity, simplicity, superlativity of the art. Him young and smart and rare. Striking of the guardians and protectors of the minds and new mornings and wild cathedral evenings. His mouth harp. Wonder. What’s to come. Outlaws chained and cheated by pursuits. This now pancake world of ours full of weakening freedom flashing - less and less, sky falling dark dim. Every word pouring out of his lips is knife sharp and heard and has perfect right to. He’s proud of them and shares them with everyone who wants them. Ancient empty streets too dead for dreaming. Stripped senses, boot heels wandering, dancing spells, no fences facing - exciting future life just ahead and ready for everyone. 

O more than half century if only musings. 

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