Bob Dylan's Story in Three Paragraphs

Once there was a young man who rode a motorbike, dressed in black leather. When he was too old to vote he surrendered his clothes to a passing hobo in exchange for a hat that was too large for Henry Fonda. On the road he soon forgot the exacting harmonica lessons of Mrs Hammond, the songs a truck driver had taught him and even his own name.

Along the way he met people who begged him to steal everything they had. Soon he was singing songs with a borrowed voice, like a friends coat returned crinkled and grey. By the time he arrived in the city he had the beggars attitude scratched across his forehead and a woman who should've known better took him in and kept him warm. He would lay awake at night and write the great American novel in his head, "Moby Dick" was finished before dawn , "Cannery Row" over breakfast.

One day he got up at a cafe where he had sung before. People were barely interested; they had seen his type before. He began his act apologetically, singing with his head slightly tilted. Something was different, people began to listen, his voice had changed (or had they changed?), each note had become a story and each verse a life. Men and women emptied into the streets contemplating something they could not touch, uncomfortable in that knowledge.