If it's true you're not really the one.
And why don't I just keep on looking for her?
Cause once I found her and now she is gone.
Cause I found her and now she is gone.
I found her and now she is gone.
It’s all so clear, I could never forget
Lovin’ you is the one thing I’ll never regret.
On November 22, 1965, Bob Dylan and Sara Lownds were married. It was a very private ceremony, taking place on the lawn of a judge in Long Island; not even Bob's parents knew. Bob and Sara moved up to a beautiful home in Woodstock, New York. On January 6, 1966, Bob and Sara became the parents of a son, Jesse Byron Dylan. After his infamous motorcycle crash that year, Dylan lived the rest of the 60s in seclusion, caring for his adopted daughter Maria, and his four children, Jesse, Anna, Sam, and finally Jakob, who was born in 1972. Friends say that they never have seen Bob happier than during these years. "He just loved being with Sara and the kids. He was a wonderful father, and he loved having the role of 'dad'. And he and Sara couldn't have been more in love" says photographer Elliot Landy, who met Dylan in 1967.
“Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”
Who killed the Kennedy's?Can't let today go by without my small, humble remembrance. It was a day everything changed and don't ask me to explain, because if you were not there, you will never understand. If you were, there is nothing else to say. That we have let the questions go on so long without answers, it is our bad. The killers walk among us.
When after all, it was you and me.
Every year, without fail, the president dies all over again. For a few days every autumn, the entire media is overwhelmed by those haunting photos from Dallas. Those cruelly happy and innocent pictures of a young president smiling and waving at bystanders, the first lady clutching a bouquet of roses. With their soft, prelapsarian colors, they seem to hail from another universe—one that has been stolen from us.
Perhaps it is that feeling of loss that explains the lingering sense of grief over John F. Kennedy’s assassination year after year, when the anniversaries of other, equally shocking events—from Pearl Harbor to 9/11—are generally quieter affairs. But there is also something unfinished about Kennedy’s death, a lingering suspicion that no one has ever been able to banish.