The inhabitants of apartment A2 have been awaiting with rather frenzied anticipation the arrival of the second half of the Scorcese documentary on Dylan from Netflix. The inhabitants of apartment A2 admit to each other that they have been thinking about this documentary a lot, waiting impatiently for its arrival, longing to be watching it. The inhabitants of the apartment drink several glasses of wine and confess to one another that they are wholly, shyly infatuated with young Bob Dylan, a man who ceased to exist when he was in a motorcycle accident and went into seclusion to raise his five children at the exact age they both are. The inhabitants of the apartment watch the documentary and murmur the best pieces of artistic advice to one another. The best pieces of artistic advice seem to be to not care what anyone thinks, shape events and actions to your own liking, insist on your version of the story, trust your instincts, fuck with the media, have an enormous ego, refuse to be a spokesperson for anything, and belong to no institution but that of your own persona and recreate it frequently.

The inhabitants of the apartment watch the documentary and become despondent that they are not, and will never be, Bob Dylan.