Half-punk-scarecrow, half-mystic-urchin, Patti Smith seems to exist on the yellowed edges of saudade: the time-carved café table, the books she carried with her on her trips (as trusted and beloved companions), the way she packs light like The Fool, her removed and impassive muteness that speaks volumes and finds itself siphoned through lyrical impulse. This is not remembering—this is collaging an identity together piece by piece. Her imagined self is membered and constructed through stories, lore, and innate mythologizing. She traffics in archetypes, myths and legends, much in the same way that Dylan does. They are most at home on the borderline of mythology, legend, fable. She, like Dylan, is portal-jumper, a vagrant with a mystical twitch. Patti Smith is forever wandering in the zoneless geography of mind, in a self-regulated universe, or monoverse. Words are the ghostly calls of a linger and haunt, a dreamer’s dreams cased and corked in trembling lyrics, a never-ending negotiation between the outer and inner. Found wanting, found dreaming, found losing, found sounding off about the self as it is dissected in thin air, in the interstices between vanishing and emergence. Half-punk-scarecrow, half-mystic urchin, the pilgrimage is the thing, as the mind functions in conjunction with imagination as both correspondent and vice. Vision being the greatest narcotic of all. We can overdose on vision without moving an inch.