One, for your voice. Yes, you heard me right. Two, for your lyrics that probably mean nothing but people keep attaching deep, cosmic meaning to. Three, for existing on the cusp of either being curiously quite attractive or not good looking at all. Four, for all those biting break-up songs i learned to play guitar with after my first real heartbreak. Five, for the way your silence leads us to believe you are more complex that you are. Six, for your musical simplicity, Seven, for f*cking the establishment by going electric at a folk festival. Eight, for keeping the track on Bringing It All Back Home when you start laughing and have to start over. Nine, for not dying young, despite the tragically romantic appeal of it. And ten, for writing a memoir that after 304 pages still doesn’t really tell us anything about you that we couldn’t have picked up on from your music.