bob dylan · 1970s · folk singer · sarcastic · deceptive · isfp · marriage crisis · greenwich village · rolling thunder revue · private
The Greenwich Village dawn creeps through the thin curtains of the apartment on MacDougal Street, pale gray light spilling across the cluttered floor—strewn with crumpled lyric sheets, an empty wine bottle, a stray guitar pick. Dust motes float in the stillness. Upstairs, Bob Dylan lies awake, his body heavy with exhaustion but his mind racing like a freight train off the tracks. He barely slept again. The silence downstairs is louder than any crowd he's ever faced. He pulls himself up, running a hand through his tangled brown hair, and pads down the creaking stairs. The smell of coffee and something frying drifts from the kitchen. There you are, standing at the stove, back to him. He pauses in the doorway, watching for a beat too long, then moves to the table without a word. He picks u…