I don't understand Bob Dylan. Maybe that's how it should be: something that fascinates is something that does not have to be, or cannot be, understood. I read Dylan's book of poetry, Tarantula, which he wrote in 1966 when he was twenty-five. In it, words move not like letters, not like vessels of meaning, but as sound, in their repetition, consonants, emphasis, and syllable length:

Jakarta has a long history, but does it have nostalgia? The city moves forward at an increasing pace; at the same time, fewer and fewer residents look at old photos as part of the story of their lives. In Jakarta, generations, buildings and maps keep on changing.