We're going here and then there, through corridors and into rooms where nobody settles. Some of them are over there and some over here with me. I don't know how I'm connected with any of them, but I don't worry.
Now we're out on a dark street, going this way and that. I don't know these folks, I say. Someone makes reference to Neil Young. Another adds a cryptic comment.
I hear it. It's Bob Dylan said that. I try and interpret, using the only reference to literature I can summon at a moment's notice, the early scene with the Australian of the busted lorrie in Green Hills of Africa. Papa tells him, the people who praise it, praise it for the rhetoric, which is unimportant. They put in a mystery which is not there.
I say that, or something like, to ask if Dylan is talking about adding mystery where none exist. He smiles at me. I guess maybe that was it.
It's later, other rooms, and I am thinking, hey, was that so? Me and Bob Dylan? Maybe that didn't happen, I think, still within my dream. Maybe that wasn't him, or maybe he didn't mean that about mystery. I always have conclusions nicely drawn, like about movies, and then later on I see insider gossip from the creators and they incorporate none of my ideas. So are they wrong? I mean, I thought the day of the writer, the auteur, was over, and it was readers' hour now.
Whose turn is it?