Jack Kerouac, after reading and drunked in City Lights, Frisco, 1963.
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Jack Kerouac, after reading and drunked in City Lights, Frisco, 1963.

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Burroughs, Ginsberg and Dylan, Subterranean Bar.
When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted currents
Breed tiny monsters
True sailing is dead
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop
And heads bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over
Jim
Jack Kerouac, drinked, after Reading, San Francisco, 1963.

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What's your road, man? The mystic's road, the madman's road, the rainbow road, the fish road, any road... There is always a road anywhere, for anyone, in any circumstance. How, where, why.
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
Que nossos pés nunca divaguem somente no chão porque é no alto que os felizes se são. Que nunca os nós, as correntes, as amarras, sejam o fim daqueles que vão. Que nunca o passo por dar seja aquele que aponta na direção do medo de vacilar. Que nunca o passo que ficou pra trás seja uma esperança que se afogou no mar. Que nunca a gente desista de trilhar um caminho, e que o destino não seja somente a dor de um espinho. Que o passo siga adiante e além do que temo. E que o aquém não seja a medida em que tremo. Que olhemos em frente com pés destemidos, avançando mesmo quando não faz sentido.
Fé na estrada