Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.
And when the fog's over and the stars and the moon come out at night it'll be a beautiful sight.
Holding up my purring cat to the moon. I sighed.
I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
Dean's California--wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.
Because he had no place he could stay in without getting tired of it and because there was nowhere to go but everywhere, keep rolling under the stars.