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It
was
a
Saturday
night
in
Greenwich
Village
when
I
approached
a
young
man
who
had
a
guitar
on
his
back.
I
asked
if
he
had
a
match
to
light
my
cigarette.
He
looked
at
me
and
apologized
because
he
didn't
have
one,
but
asked
if
I
could
give
a
cigarette
to
him.
I
said,
"Of
course,"
picked
up
my
cigarette
pack,
tapped
a
cigarette
out
and
handed
it
to
him.
Then,
we
walked
to
meet
someone
who
could
light
our
cigarettes.
A
girl,
a
really
beautiful
girl,
was
smoking
and
walking
in
our
direction.
We
approached
her
and
asked
for
a
match;
she
said
okay,
and
we
lit
our
cigarettes.
Then
we
struck
up
a
conversation
about
nothing.
After
a
few
minutes,
she
asked
if
we
would
like
to
join
her
at
a
party.
I
exchanged
glances
with
the
unknown
smoker,
and
we
decided
to
follow
the
beautiful
girl.
The
party
was
taking
place
in
a
loft
near
where
we
were,
about
four
or
five
buildings
away
on
the
third
floor.
People
were
constantly
coming
and
going
from
that
spot.
As
we
entered,
a
woman
kissed
the
beautiful
girl
and
immediately
directed
us
to
a
table
with
drinks.
Jazz
playing
from
a
record
player
was
filling
the
room.
There
was
a
lot
of
smoke
and
talk.
We
grabbed
some
drinks
and
unhurriedly
started
to
get
into
the
party
mood.
Later
we
left
the
party.
Despite
having
had
so
many
drinks,
we
were
sober.
Perhaps
our
conversation
was
more
substantial
than
the
hangover.
During
our
walk,
the
guitar
guy
said
little
about
himself,
but
the
beautiful
girl
talked
a
lot.
She
mentioned
that
her
parents
were
Communists
and
philosophized
about
how
society
had
become
completely
contaminated
by
ambition.
She
emphasized
the
importance
of
a
healthy
world
protesting
against
war
in
order
to
defend
peace.
Then,
we
arrived
in
Washington
Square
Park,
where
the
guitar
guy
began
to
utter
poetic
words
to
the
beautiful
girl.
She
accepted
these
gestures
of
affection
very
well.
While
I
smoked
and
watched
the
sunrise,
the
two
exchanged
lots
of
affection.
The
sun
already
was
shining
that
Sunday,
when
he
invited
her
to
see
him
perform
at
Cafe
Wha?.
She
said
she
had
to
go
and
asked
for
our
names.
I
said
my
name
was
Derek,
and
the
guitar
guy
said
his
name
was
Robert,
but
everyone
called
him
Bob.
He
asked
her
for
her
name,
and
she
ran
from
there
and
cried
out
near
the
arch,
"I
don't
have
a
name,
but
the
whole
world
would
know
about
me."
She
disappeared
as
soon
as
she
passed
through
the
arch
designed
by
Stanford
White.
Bob,
the
guitar
guy,
looked
at
me
and
said,
"This
girl
is
my
inspiration!"
The
guitar
guy
was
right;
the
beautiful
girl
was
his
inspiration,
materialized
that
night
and
made
him
compose
so
many
songs
since
he
arrived
in
Greenwich
Village
in
1961.
Since
then,
he
has
been
singing
about
love,
people,
philosophy,
policy,
art,
and
many
intricate
subjects
in
a
beautiful
way.
It
is
clear
that
all
of
his
poetry
has
never
gone
blowin'
in
the
wind.
END
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