If I ever meet Free-wheelin'-nera Bob Dylan,nI'd tell him that we had the same dream.nnAnd he would probably say,nyou mean that one on the train?nYou and everybody else, it seems.nnAnd I would probably say,nYeah. You're right. Okay.nBut why do you think that is?nnAnd he'd probably reply with,nfriend, I don't know why. It njust seems to be what happens.nnThat everybody changes into mothball scented clothes,ntelling stories that never even happened, nat least not the way their versions go.nOh yeah?nnWell, it's not youthful naivete nor some ungrateful bellyachenor living like I'm trying to forget.nnI know there's something commendablenwith being responsible and dependable,nI just haven't figured it out for myself yet.nnAnd I know there's something I should saynto make it all okay,nbut all I have to show for it,nnat the age of twenty-threenis this juvenile philosophy:nThere's more to life than taking people's shit.nnOh yeah? Well how many people start cool and end up cold?nIs that some kind of prerequisite to getting out and getting old?nOh yeah?nnBut when the boredom in your life nmeets the boredom in your eyes,njustify it all you like,nbut some things should never change.nnSo if I ever have an audience nwith nowadays-era Dylan,nI'd just ask him where the hell has he been,nnwhen will he return,nand why is he concernednwith commercials and lawsuits against Hootie and the Blowfish?nnAnd if you ever meetnHusky Tenor-era me,npromise you'll promise me this:nnStill my beating heart nif ever I'm a part nof what I nowadays try to resist.nOh yeah.