Kerouac told me to be a dumbsaint of the mind.

If I own anything, if I consume anything, it’s the physical manifestations of creative energy that is mankind’s life-source, think fountains of blue green color, equivalent only to the light that shines on the oceans in times of paradisial sincerity, equivalent only to the green thumbed red eyed golden hearted of today’s disenfranchised youth, equivalent only to the worn out shoes of freedom caught in the tires of progress, equivalent only to the children of the Nile when its Egyptian shores were Hebrew, equivalent only to the sweat on your brow as you stick your thumb up in the air for a ride on the interstate, equivalent only to the forests green forests of the everlasting, equivalent only to the vacant city courthouses at two in the morning echoes of police cruisers off the bricks, equivalent only to the voice of Robert Plant when Led Zeppelin released Stairway to Heaven, equivalent only and only to I and I, to God, to Allah, to YHWY, equivalent to the symmetry of asymmetry, to the perfection of imperfection, equivalent only to the infant bright eyed staring at the ceiling, equivalent only to palm trees in summer monsoons, equivalent to the grace and power of giving the finger to the ones that live vicariously through you, stop it live for yourself, stop reading this and live, stop writing this testament and live, the world is running a marathon and you’re out of breathe, Jesus, Jesus, take me home, Mama, I’m comin’ home, baby, I gotta leave ya, swing low sweet chariot, sweet is the flavor of broken chains but the horror of living naked is actually the laughter of beating it down with your feet as you dance around the fires of the romantic fantasy of living being self-sufficient, trusting the God within your soul, let your soul burst the confines of the boxes we contain them in, and make sure to write home to your dog.

He’s gonna miss you.