the world is different every time i check in, the nights are different from the aching daylight, didn't hemingway know it all, the unbearable inability to express one's world, and all i can do is run places and fix my face to block all thought. 1million words racing each other in my mind, against the background of friendly yet expectant faces full of question marks, dust in the air swirling and large low hanging orange moons. i want to jump from my 14th floor room into the pool below, and hide under the surface forever, drink the silence, and the pressure, physical.

susan and i went to big sur, a dream of a place

whoo, frisco nights, the end of the continent and the end of doubt, all dull doubt and tomfoolery, good-by

too many words too feisty and too meaningless, and i wrap myself in sheets of stars and the universe, listening to clickety clicky cheesy music and looking upwards into grey skies that hold no promises. i miss the colours, and the summer

Dean's California - wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to foregather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.

nothing can quite describe the feeling of the dreams, and these images turned into dream-like fragments once again, nothing nothing nothing can quite be that love pouring out of the kerouac frenzy-filled madness that i seek everywhere, but this was my search for it. susan and i under the big bright blue western sky, westcoast starlights and sunrises, oh the excitement

washington & oregon & the american dream