nothingness.
I havent been a prolific blogger. In fact, far from it. I am not writing away to the Republic of Bibliophilia, locked in my room, and all clandestine, like some. Instead I am happy writing my one line posts, that are read by none but I. Self pity aside, I shall be drifting into nothingness soon. The nothingness that follows a nice Radiohead session and the company of Joyce and Kerouac. Its nothingness, really.
Kerouac I can speak about, for hours. The guy’s a fucking lunatic - divorcing some thrice, at least, to just take a drive down to Frisco from Downtown NYC, through Denver, Chicago and all those all American towns. He stands over the edge of a trailer he’s hitched to Denver, and pees over overtaking cars. Kerouac’s Sal Paradise – the protagonist, if you can call him that. An even more interesting character, as per my understanding, is Dean. Dean, Moriarty. He’s left the wives and children, he’s had his hand chopped off, driven around in a Hudson, loved the Garden of Eden, swam in beer, floated on mexican ma-ree-wana clouds and been Sal’s best buddy. Quite simply, Dean’s the man.
I, on the other hand, am drifting into nothingness.
Nothing more.
I am not writing away to the Republic of Bibliophilia, locked in my room, and all clandestine, like some…….oooooohhhhh, no one likes a pussy dude.
true, no one does.