the best Bob Dylan is sad Bob Dylan. I used to work at his cafe in Santa Monica and he ran it like any other cheap small business owner would. But damn, he's good and sad on a rainy night in Los Angeles.
i was walking thinking about death. I was drinking while slinking in between staggered alleyways. I shared a cigarette. I smoked a joint that was handed to me. I ate tacos too spicy. I drank milk. My limbs grew tired. I formulated so many beautiful things in my head to say over the course of the last several days but I drank them away. Washed them down the drain in a carbonated brine.
i had a short story. It went something like this:
at the end of the day, his hands smelled of fish and cigarette smoke. Because that is what he worked with to survive. And he would marvel at the shiny scaled fatty creatures that would arrive with such consistency to his cutting board. How lucky. To never have pulled one of them from the sea.. But to still revel in their bounty each day like an artist with fresh paint that stunk to perfection. Lemon. Dill. Chives. Fresh grated horseradish. Labneh. Mixed. He sold the salad by weight. It was his daintiest creation in the glass case and he liked everything else best. And he wasn't a smoker, just someone who choked on the fumes of a missing distant impulse.
and if you are going to do anything, he thought as he shaved off a translucent thin sliver of pink oily flesh with sharpened knife, you might as well do it beautifully.
