This morning I was writing a sentimental letter to a friend of mine who is leaving on a long journey. It was cold and early and grey and I stayed warm by way of tea and biscuits. I listened to Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. It felt very right. Usually I am much too excitable to be able to enjoy Bob Dylan, but sometimes when the moment is right, it feels like nothing could be more perfect than the sound of a worn-out couch, a tired soul and the weekend morning tinkling of a back porch harmonica.
