Bob Dylan passed me in the train station.  I followed him with my eyes as he strode past in black in white and all I could do was yell, “hey man! I saw you once in a moving picture!  You’re shorter than I thought.”  He clicked a high-heeled boot in my direction his slow motion eyes closing on an era.  “I hope I weep when you die,” I think, left disappearing in the whispers of his cigarette smoke.