Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?

We are nothing. - Tomorrow we may be die. We are nothing. - You and me.

And the story of love is a long sad tale ending in graves.

How clear the realization one is going mad -- the mind has a silence, nothing happens in the physique, urine gathers in your loins, your ribs contract.

They were like the man with the dungeon stone and gloom, rising from the underground, the sordid hipsters of America, a new beat generation that I was slowly joining.

What's your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It's an anywhere road for anybody anyhow. Where body how?

Paris is a woman but London is an independent man puffing his pipe in a pub.