It seemed like a matter of minutes when we began rolling in the foothills before Oakland and suddenly reached a height and saw stretched out ahead of us the fabulous white city of San Francisco on her eleven mystic hills with the blue Pacific and its advancing wall of potato-patch fog beyond, and smoke and goldenness in the late afternoon of time.

We lay on our backs looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when he made life so sad and disinclined.

Listen closely... the eternal hush of silence goes on and on throughout all this, and has been going on, and will go on and on. This is because the world is nothing but a dream and is just thought of and the everlasting eternity pays no attention to it.

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; NY gets god-awful cold in the winter but there's a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

This is the story of America. Everybody's doing what they think they're supposed to do.

all I wanted to do was sneak out into the night and disappear somewhere, and go and find out what everybody was doing all over the country.

We wandered in a frenzy and a dream (301).