Wild wolves—born in Carolina, sweet like the meadows around the pool of tears—told me why a man said a mass in the old church while a hurricane was blowing. Why didn't they tell me— unnamed at the bottom of a wishing well, on trial against my will, already ruined like a mournin' dove—I could only turn back the clock in spring, too late? It looked like a blinding light, and couldn't you see that by my side? I was with you; the sparks began to fly in Scarlet Town, in Hell's Kitchen, down the line. Remember, I forgot your body on the wrong side of the railroad track. (Andrew Shields, #111Words, 24 May 2026, for Bob Dylan on his 85th birthday)