Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.
Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?
Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.
The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream.
I didn't know what to say. I felt like crying, Goddammit everybody in the world wants an explanation for your acts and for your very being.
Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.
Writing at least is a silent meditation even though you’re going a hundred miles an hour.
The empty blue sky of space says 'All this comes back to me, then goes again, and comes back again, then goes again, and I don't care, it still belongs to me
A pain stabbed my heart as it did every time I saw a girl I loved who was going the opposite direction in this too-big world.
But I remember seeing a mess of leaves suddenly go skittering in the wind and into the creek, then floating rapidly down the creek towards the sea, making me feel a nameless horror even then of 'Oh my God, we're all being swept away to sea no matter what we know or say or do
It all ends in tears anyway.
and silence is the golden mountain
I'm not a beatnik. I'm a Catholic.
If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
You guys are going somewhere or just going?
Ah, if I could realize, if I could forget myself and devote my meditations to the freeing, the awakening and the blessedness of all living creatures everywhere I'd realize what there is, is ecstasy.
The fact was I had the vision... I think everyone has... what we lack is the method.
It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.
Vanity of vanities… all is vanity.’ You kill yourself to get to the grave. Especially you kill yourself to get to the grave before you die; and the name of the grave is ‘success’, the name of that grave is hullabullo boom boom horseshit.
I see as much as doors'll allow, open or shut.
i wish the whole world was dead serious about food instead of silly rockets and machines and explosives using everybody's food money to blow their heads off anyway.
Houses are full of things that gather dust
Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.
It always makes me proud to love the world somehow- hate's so easy compared.
They build their own Hells.
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