Tuesday, November 30, 2004

Can't sleep, go downstairs, the whole outside is lit up. Step outside, a good kind of cold and the world's pure when no one's watching. Smells like the desert, I can see my breath, my English class is reading The Dharma Bums and everything's just a little more still.

Hard to believe this is right outside our windows, every night, and we never bother to pay attention.

So I hope they'll listen to dear old Mr. Kerouac.