Five minutes left to live before I get ready for work and then what, you know what, rush slip fall rush again when you get back up. Life or existence which is it how do I categorize? Just keep writing, finish the goddamn novel I tell myself thinking of the Kerouac study I did before Fall ’14 semester.. just tired of the pull, push, rush, flush. Down an obligatory toilet– and if I stop then I get to live, and I write about it while others just complain– er, I write my complaints, is that more sophisticated? Well if you ask him, yes, Mr. Emerson, Hemingway.. then the others, the insurance agent or the advertising Marin twits, no.. so… I walk, the Camino with my friend Anne and see what I see, see what Newness will greet me on my Road, me Paradise and Moriarty’s always there beside me in my Beat– get in the car and drive and don’t stop, but if you need gas then fine, fine that contributes to the composition of the travel– free, madness in the candle, burning with the flame licks you read about in mythology or theology, the punishment no just reward, reward for finally seeing, finally growing up, and I’m up in that sky, with cirrus and cumulo– so, onward to go to the next border, the next state, the next city and characters. Composed.