Written in the Style of Kerouac. Forgive Me, Jack.

And in the dark Living Room one lamp is on as I sit on the old couch we found watching the light from the small, single bulb lap at the corners of the room and feeling all that space that rolls immeasurably up and into the mind, all those memories building, but in the future I know it will still be the same mind this mind of mine, though our atoms are always shifting, and don’t you know that for a moment you will be made from the same molecules as Shakespeare? the bulb burns out and leaves a softer, humming darkness than what was just before and I am filled with a brown-black that reminds me of the country, of the creases in your eyes, the smell of leather and nobody, nobody knows what’s going to happen except that maybe time may hurt to everyone, and I think of being born, the most important beginning that I cannot remember, I think of being born.