Sit at the computer clad in flowy black broomstick skirt and hand-stitched black shirt and Google black and white past concert photos; then drag your lifeless body back to your room and Gorilla Glue the images to your wall, framing the windows. Find your favorites and position them at the corners and outline his figure in gold ink, adding dramatic rays shooting out from the curls in his hair. Take that same pen and write the lyrics to “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” around the windowsill, then carve words to “Lay Lady Lay” encircling your left bedpost. Push your desk against your new wall beneath the black-and-white menagerie and line up candles in rows, intentionally mismatched with wax spilling over the sides and onto the table. Add incense and a small rug in front. Make a point of putting on mascara that isn’t waterproof, slide your turntable under the desk, slow-brew a cup of raspberry tea and sit cross-legged at the foot of your shrine while the running mascara is mingling with the gentle strum pattern of “Simple Twist of Fate.” Sip nostalgically and when your little sister opens the door and whines she can hear “that bad singer’s voice” through the wall, tell her that Ashlee Simpson can’t sing either and neither can she; plan to go steal her tambourine from her drawer.

Burn your Jimi Hendrix vinyl because he covered “All Along the Watchtower” and got the credit (even though in the back of your mind you know you like his rendition better). Press the Dylan miniposter your best friend got you for Christmas into the melted record and outline it in rhinestones and shiny earring backs that have lost their mates. Retrieve your dead—dried, you like to think—corsage from prom a year or two ago and stretch the elastic wristband around the bottom of the sculpture. Position shrine precisely in the middle of the candles.

Strive to stay strong; it’s next to impossible to avoid tears when your mother enters and inquires about your activities, only to shrug walk out but not before quoting, “the times, they are a’changin’.”

Write a letter to Pope John Paul II, pleading to consider Dylan for sainthood, another letter for yet another Nobel Prize nomination, and one more to several cardinals asking to please pre-consider him for martyrdom (“a martyr for the sake of American music as we know it,” you reason).

When the phone rings and interrupts your bereaving, only to turn out to be a wrong number, mutter a choked “It ain’t me, babe; it ain’t me you’re looking for” in the receiver. If you’re lucky, the pain may be mutual; perhaps the individual will pick up the small rug off of their own floor and come join you. They’ll wordlessly enter the dimly lit tabernacle, kneel and lay out their rug and fold their legs Indian-style next to you. You’ll approvingly note the mug of chai cupped between their hands and the harmonica protruding from their pocket. When both cups are drained, they’ll meekly say that “Hurricane” is their favorite song. Reply that you listened to “Not Dark Yet” six times consecutively the first time you heard it then sat at your desk and wrote until five a.m. Turn the record over and play “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door;” avoid thought of the appropriateness of the song. When your company says that Guns n’ Roses redid it, point out that they at least gave Dylan the credit.

Pick up your acoustic guitar and christen it Robert Zimmerman, improvising the signature harmonica notes of “Like a Rolling Stone” on the high E string. Throw it on your bed in vain and promptly un-christen it; your guitar skills are unworthy of a guitar of such nomenclature. Relight the candles and replace the tea lights that have burned through their wicks. Go to your computer and preorder tickets for the Dylan show in Atlanta on April 15th. If it fatefully turns out to be his last show, your presence must certainly be assured.