What was to come
is already here.
Those ten words recorded by Dylan in his notebook on that first Tuesday of April 67, formulated an intuition the corners of which have rounded over the years.
Now, seventeen thousand three hundred and eighty days later, on a palindromic date of fours and ones, a collection of one hundred and thirty-eight songs reaches us like a flock of birds from another world that began their flight oblivious to fate, to any destination. Some fell by the wayside, others may yet arrive.
One by one, they shine; taken together, they beam.
With an absence of purpose, Dylan foresaw that their joy of songs sung in circle, that atmosphere of buddies and forests beyond applause and haste, were also to bear future fruits.