They rushed down the street together, digging everything in the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perceptive and blank. But then they danced down the street like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" What did they call such people in Goethe's Germany?
Hver sommer jeg har levd uten å lese Kerouac har vært en trist sommer.
2 kommentarer:
liker ikke hippi hatere
Kan ikke helt skjønne hva det har med saken å gjøre, og jeg klarer heller ikke la være å påpeke at du har prestert det mesterstykket det er å inkludere en orddelingsfeil i en setning på fire ord. Hippiehatere blir det vel. Nuvel.
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