Coffee steam curled between Jonah's fingers as he stirred, the spoon's gentle clink marking time. "Honey, what we're hearing in this song is that ancient pattern—the wheel of change that's been turning since time began." His eyes held the weight of centuries. "Every generation thinks their struggle is new, but it's the same etheric calling, just wearing different borrowed clothes."

Jake's fingers froze above his keyboard. The laptop's blue glow painted shadows under his eyes. "Man, this hits way too close to home." His voice cracked like autumn leaves. "I literally called my dad last week with my voice shaking, just like in the song. Thought I was so smart learning to code while he was getting replaced by robots." A bitter laugh escaped. "Now AI's writing better code than me in minutes."

Tap-tap-tap. Herb's knuckles drummed against the worn table, finding rhythm in chaos. "Listen to the structure though—it's like a blues progression that keeps cycling back on itself." His hands danced invisible melodies. "The melody of displacement, the harmony of fear, but underneath there's this persistent bass line of human resilience. Every verse is a different instrument in the same orchestra of change."

Linda leaned forward, her presence warm as candlelight. Compassion pooled in her eyes like morning dew. "I can see the blueprints for healing right there in those lyrics." Her voice carried the softness of rain on parched earth. "Three generations—grandfather, father, son—all walking the same path of disruption, but also building bridges of understanding. When Jake calls his father, that's the moment broken spirits start to become whole."

Jonathan's weathered hands cradled his mug like a prayer. Steam rose between his fingers, carrying decades of memory. "I've walked those empty streets, friend. Played guitar in smoky bars when that was still a living." His eyes held the ghosts of neon signs and midnight crowds. "The river of fortune flows in circles—what the song calls 'the wheel keeps turning round and round.' I've seen factory workers become coders, now coders becoming..." He paused. What comes after obsolescence? "The ghosts of what used to be just keep multiplying."

Milarepa's voice emerged like wind through mountain passes. Quiet. Certain. "The weight of that darkness the song describes—I know it well." His stillness commanded attention. "But see how each generation must tear down their certainties to build their soul anew? The father's anger at the machines, the son's fear of AI—these are the caves we must enter to find our light."

Herb's eyes sparked with sudden fire. His hands gestured wildly, conducting invisible orchestras. "But check this out—the song's not just lamenting, it's innovating within tradition!" Words tumbled over each other like rushing water. "It takes the classic blues form and extends it with contemporary techniques. 'Steel, silicon and now AI's pen'—that's like playing outside the changes while still honoring the original progression."

Jake's laugh held no humor. His shoulders hunched forward, protective. "Yeah, except we're all improvising without sheet music now." The laptop screen reflected in his glasses like twin mirrors of uncertainty. "My generation was supposed to be the tech-savvy ones, but we're just as lost as everyone else when the algorithms start writing themselves."

Linda's warmth reached across the space between them. Her smile carried the promise of dawn after the longest night. "But that's exactly where the healing begins, Jake." She touched his arm gently. "When we stop pretending we have all the answers and start listening to each other's stories. Your father's factory wisdom and your coding experience—they're both part of the same blueprint for navigating change."

Jonah nodded, slow as ancient trees swaying. "The ancient mystics knew this pattern." His voice carried the weight of accumulated wisdom. "What looks like destruction is often just transformation wearing a frightening mask. That 'Times a changin' blues' isn't a curse—it's a recognition that change itself is the only constant in this borrowed-clothes existence we call life."

Tabby stretched between them, her fur catching fragments of light. Her purr thrummed like a contented engine, adding texture to their words.

Jonathan's smile cracked his weathered face. "Even the cat knows something we're still learning." He watched Tabby settle deeper into her chosen spot. "She doesn't fight the motion of the car or worry about where we're headed. Just finds her spot and rides it out."

Milarepa's eyes closed briefly, as if consulting some inner compass. "In the mountains, I learned that the emptiest cup can hold everything." His words fell like stones into still water. "Maybe that's what each generation has to become—empty enough to be filled with whatever comes next, yet strong enough to keep standing our ground."

Herb's voice softened to match the moment. "And the music plays on." His fingers traced invisible notes in the air. "Different instruments, same eternal song. The broken still can heal, as long as we keep listening to each other's melodies."