Fuck Kerouac; he would write his own story.

The 21st century simply means open century.

I'm in the middle of the road, it seems vague of unclear way, of where I'm going but no matter what the road throws at me, no matter what challenges, obstacles or difficulties I come across, I won't turn back now I rather be absorbed by the way, be lost in the way than to admit defeat, for such so long so far I have traveled yet so long, so far to be traveled.

They stand uncertainly underneath immense skies, and everything about them is drowned.

I heard the Denver and Rio Grande locomotives howling off in to the mountains. I wanted to pursue my star further.

I read my copy of On the Road and dug the scenery whizzing past. On the Road is a semi-autobiographical novel about Jack Kerouac, a druggy, hard-drinking writer who goes hitchhiking around America, working crummy jobs, howling through the streets at night, meeting people and parting ways. Hipsters, sad-faced hobos, con-men, muggers, scumbags and angels. There's not really a plot -- Kerouac supposedly wrote it in three weeks on a long roll of paper, stoned out of his mind -- only a bunch of amazing things, one thing happening after another. He makes friends with self-destructing people like Dean Moriarty, who get him involved in weird schemes that never really work out, but still it works out, if you know what I mean.

There was a rhythm to the words, it was luscious, I could hear it being read aloud in my head. It made me want to lie down in the bed of a pickup truck and wake up in a dusty little town somewhere in the central valley on the way to LA, one of those places with a gas station and a diner, and just walk out into the fields and meet people and see stuff and do stuff.