(no subject)
Two nights ago, the beginning of my stream-of-consciousness late night insomniac journal, I said this: "What is life in the end if not nothing? Endless eternal beautiful inconsequential nothing nothing. Nothing is of consequence except to those directly physically emotionally in touch held in abstract physical embrace with me and they too will soon be dust." Tonight I read this: "My life is a vast inconsequential epic with a thousand and a million characters--here they all come, as swiftly we roll east, as swiftly the earth rolls east." KEROUAC YOU MAKE ME SICK.