There’s a disturbing regularity about what Bob Dylan’s crowd pulls.   They were always too loud. For years they have been obsessed with inflicting insanity-making trauma on me.   A tragedy we may never escape has fallen on America and the world as though covert discussion of the Green New Deal.    I look back on my thankless years of trying to warn people summing it up in my memory as “and that wasn’t true” and “even when.”   Widely perceived as too dangerous to befriend, and it had the aspect of a church utility or exampling.

          The hardball cover story had about it a grand slam of trickery.   The Beatles were the Klondike Gold Rush of melody makers, and nobody should have ever mistaken that it was meant to be all for them.   

       The taking off of the cashier’s mask at Kinokuniya symbolized a hypnotic goal of seeing me self-destruct.  The only reason it can be seen any other way is because of the game Ichiro and Dylan pulled for years saying I was trying to abandon the justice of a threat to do HIV.  That’s what sort of gang seduced me to a convo on homeless eviction when they put semenous goo in my coffee at Red Elm on the eve of corona. My last autograph of the little man was a signed foot, signifying the goal to kick us out.  It was a nice Ichiro magazine I had come in honor to secure as I had promised.   

       Just like Mt. Desert Island there was all this, it’s just a hoax stuff.