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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Damn," Art said, "that smells good." "Listen!" Willow said, turning up the volume. Don't send me no more letters, no not unless you mail them from Desolation Row. Dylan's intensity, the smell of curry, Amber's perfect body next to Art's shoulders, and her own unnamed passion coalesced into another moment she would never forget. "Too much," she said when the piece ended. "Want some wine?"
"Used to pitch for the Pirates," Shorty said. The bartender's expression didn't change. Joe noticed that he stood balanced on both feet. "Why aren't you teaching in a university somewhere?" Joe asked him. "You know Bob Dylan's line about the difference between hospitals and universities?" "No." "More people die in universities. Also . . . " He did a quick soft-shoe shuffle. "I drink, so be it."
She placed the straw hat on its peg, drank a large glass of water, and played Highway 61 Revisited. "Like a rolling stone . . . " she sang along as she cut up onions. "To be on your own . . . " Whack, whack. "How does it feel? . . . " Whack, whack. Amber and Art arrived in the middle of Desolation Row. "Listen to that," she said as Bob Dylan's harmonica blew out the pain and isolation.
Dylan came out of the kitchen and began to play a low and rolling melody. Patrick felt an equality between them. Dylan played the melody over and over with simple variations, searching for something. Hunting. In the charged space between Dylan's music and Eve's beauty, Patrick thought about significant digits. Joe Burke was on to something. The rubber met the road at significant digits.
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