Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind.
The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.
Our radio plays rhythm and blues as we pass the joint back and forth in jutjawed silence both looking ahead with big private thoughts now so vast we can't communicate them anymore and if we tried it would take a million years and a billion books - Too late, too late, the history of everything we've seen together and separately has become a library in itself - The shelves pile higher - They're full of misty documents or documents of the Mist-.
There is a blessedness surely to be believed, and that is that everything abides in eternal ecstasy, now and forever.
cliches are truisms and all truisms are true
Her little shoulders drove me mad; I hugged her and hugged her. And she loved it. 'I love love,' she said, closing her eyes. I promised her beautiful love. I gloated over her. Our stories were told; we subsided into silence and sweet anticipatory thoughts. It was as simple as that. You could have all your Peaches and Bettys and Marylous and Ritas and Camilles and Inezes in this world; this was my girl and my kind of girlsoul, and I told her that.
I pictured myself in a Denver bar that night, with all the gang, and in their eyes I would be strange and ragged and like the Prophet who has walked across the land to bring the dark Word, and the only Word I had was 'Wow!
Believe that the world is an ethereal flower, and ye live.
Details are the Life of Prose.
All I wanted and all Neal wanted and all anybody wanted was some kind of penetration into the heart of things where, like in a womb, we could curl up and sleep the ecstatic sleep that Burroughs was experiencing with a good big mainline shot of M. and advertising executives in NY were experiencing with twelve Scotch & Sodas in Stouffers before they made the drunkard's train to Westchester---but without hangovers.
And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.
February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.
I'd sleep and forget it; I had my own life, my own sad and ragged life forever.
I can't think of anybody...who knows the sum and substance of what I know and feel and cry about in my secret self all the time when I don't feel strong, the sorrows of time and personality, and can therefore on all levels make it all the way with me
And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!
I like it because its ugly
It made me think that everything was about to arrive - the moment when you know all and everything is decided forever.
Holding up my purring cat to the moon. I sighed.
Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all
beautiful insane in the rain
Write in recollection and amazement for yourself.
Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love.
I have fallen in love with you, God. Take care of us all, one way or the other.
Oftentimes an originator of new language forms is called 'pretentious' by jealous talents. But it ain’t whatcha write, it’s the way atcha write it.
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