Bob Dylan's rasp, like the tang of rye or the low sweet bite of sandalwood incense. Fingers tapping the sides of a red coffee mug to the rhythm of the acoustic guitar. I'm looking for an answer, but no wind blows my way.

Insomniac waiting for the Tambourine Man. Castles build and crumble to the swell of the harmonica.

Forgiveness comes and goes on the vibrations of a guitar string.