Thinking of a series of dreams Where the time and the tempo fly And there's no exit in any direction 'Cept the one that you can't see with your eyes

If you wanted to, it would be easy to find some crappy lyrics [of Bob Dylan] from the Eighties to undermine the Nobel Prize.

I hurt easy, I just don't show it. You can hurt someone and not even know it.

People call you this or that. But I can't respond because then it seems like I'm defensive, you know, what does it matter, really?

Ironically, this was Bob Dylan's period [1967-74] of greatest fame.

Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day, with strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us.

You don't write a song to sit there on a page. You write it to sing it.