Quiet, But Soon

It’s hard to imagine that way back when, this course must have been some water’s path of least resistance to low ground.  It’s strange now, too, when at most points, only a few feet of mud and rhododendrons separate straight stretches of the river.  Such small natural barriers begging to be broken down.  My mind isn’t as supple as the serpentine river, and I don’t know anything about whatever kind of science this is.  

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Beats

True stories, bled onto the page, with just the names and certain details changed. Especially Kerouac. His stories weren’t remarkable. Nothing specific happened in On The Road. The entire manuscript consisted of small moments and mad people, all strung together into a ten-year odyssey of self-discovery. It was a collection of memories. He kept his memories with books, the way most people kept them with cameras. I wanted to do that. 

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