Saturday, May 26, 2007

All The Tired Horses, by Bob Dylan

Driving to the hospital. Hours and hours awake. No sleep till next week, if that. Strange cold breeze in the middle of may. A cigarette hanging from his mouth. The routine of the last weeks has been exhausting. All night at the hospital, then school early in the morning, then two hours of sleep, then hospital again. 95 km per hour heading south. The hospital. The smell of the nurses, their patronizing smiles. Cloudy forecast, almost black. Sleet begins to fall down. All the tired horses in the sun, how'm I supposed to get any ridin' done? The moment of closest intimacy with his brother has happened during those three minutes and the sudden stop because of sudden traffic. The hospital lies ahead. Sleet has now turned into heavy rain. His brother only says: "Pass me a cigarette".

(happy birthday, Bob!)

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