This was really the way my whole road experience began, and the things that were to come are too fantastic not to tell.

I don't wanta hear all your word descriptions of words words words you made up all winter, man I wanta be enlightened by actions.

And what does the rain say at night in a small town, what does the rain have to say? Who walks beneath dripping melancholy branches listening to the rain? Who is there in the rain’s million-needled blurring splash, listening to the grave music of the rain at night, September rain, September rain, so dark and soft? Who is there listening to steady level roaring rain all around, brooding and listening and waiting, in the rain-washed, rain-twinkled dark of night?

It all ends in tears anyway.

I'm right there, swimming the river of hardships but I know how to swim.

You seek identity in the midst of indistinguishab le chaos, in sprawling nameless reality.

Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that cramp they didn't really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume.