Take Care Of All Your Memories. For

Ain't Nothing Too Discreet About The Disease Of Conceit.

Someone Handed Me Mexico City Blues In St. Paul [minnesota] In 1959 And It Blew My Mind. It Was The First Poetry That Spoke My Own Language.

How Many A Year Has Passed And Gone And Many Gamble Has Been Lost And Won, And Many A Road Taken By A Friend And Each One I've Never Seen Again.

All I Can Do Is Be Me, Whoever That Is.

If I Wasn't Bob Dylan, I'd Probably Think That Bob Dylan Has A Lot Of Answers Myself.