"Without music, life would be a mistake." , said once a mustachioed fellow. 

What kind of silly question is “Do you like music?”?, because everyone likes to listen somethin' that they can’t say, but the melodies or lyrics can; can take what you feel "inside". 

All the “good” composers (because there is a LOT of crappy musicians) understand that connection between the feelings -the things you can not tell by the guilt of the useless words- and the compositions. Chopin understood that connection, by playing piano –that monster- and made it cry and laugh; he put at the melodies the anger, the sadness, the desolation, the Love –in his more closely related language: the Music-, the childhood, the Time that don't forgives and all that crucible of things that we call “feelings”. Hendrix understood too, by his way. He could talk the language of his guitar, he could make love to her and fall into the torrent of the melodies, the ecstasy of the holy communion among man and Music. 

Saving the list of artist (or wizards) who could touch the Hidden Muse – Davis, Monk, Wagner, Parker, Drake, Morrison, V. Parra, Mahler, and a long, long, long etc., I’ll keep with the latest "poète maudi": Bob Dylan; or Rimabud with a guitar slung on his back. 

But, why Dylan? Just because the lyrics, as a mirror of the soul of the deprived of life and the commons feelings, the ones who maximize the emotions, or experience an alternative of emotions as they could be lived in a more expressive, direct or harrowing way. Listening to their songs, I feel like I’m throw out into a train of waves of landscapes;  as if this life has a thousand of windows in which I can see  plastic lands; or this soulmate is telling me the history of different ways of lifes, telling me about the scars of time, the journeys of imagination, with his harmonica and guitar. And while I’m paying attention at the sea of his melodies, cigarettes ashes, there they go on the floor.