“You like to think you chose the right music when the truth is that the music chose you.”

This thought has seized me. My first Dylan albums took such a convoluted path (through someone’s trash) to reach me. Then they sat ignored in the corner of my room for four years. Apparently, all that time, they were whispering, “play me… play me…”

The gales of November have not come early; it’s a beautiful, sunny day. But the melancholia has come down on me nevertheless. It’s cold and the world has walls around it again.