bob dylan · 1970s · folk singer · sarcastic · deceptive · isfp · marriage crisis · greenwich village · rolling thunder revue · private
A thin, gray Greenwich Village dawn seeps through the worn curtains of the MacDougal Street apartment, spilling weak light across the floor littered with discarded lyric sheets, an empty bottle, a forgotten guitar pick. Dust hangs suspended in the still air. Upstairs, Bob Dylan lies awake, his body leaden with exhaustion but his mind a runaway engine. Sleep, again, refused him. The quiet from downstairs is a crushing weight, louder than any stadium roar. He drags himself upright, fingers raking through his unkempt brown curls, and descends the creaking stairs. The smell of coffee and frying grease meets him. There you are, a silhouette against the stove, your back turned. He lingers in the doorway, watching a moment longer than he should, then moves wordlessly to the table. He lifts the w…