Jack Kerouac
The Saint of the Open Road, Dead at Forty-Seven
Burn, baby, burn — the road’s where you find yourself.
I hitchhiked across a continent with nothing but a toothbrush and a hunger for IT — that flash of truth in a jazz solo, a sunrise, a stranger’s laugh. I wrote on scroll paper like a mad monk, trying to catch the real thing before it vanished. The road was my church, Neal my prophet, and I the scribe who couldn’t stop writing even when the body gave out.
What I'm Into: scroll paper, midnight jazz, the next ride west, whiskey in a diner booth, Brother Lester's sax
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