holy mendicant con-man

I have no zest to work except to observe the passing of time. I do not count the seconds or the minutes or the hours but only to note how quickly twelve minutes become lost between the moments I look at the display of the clock—a-ticking and a-tock—and how it's three a.m. all over again and four and five. Yesterday I went to the bookshop after staying in an entire week and picked up three books which can occupy me for a fortnight. I have been unhealthily obsessed over Jack Kerouac of late and wonder if I am not the re-incarnate of his spirit—the beers for kicks, the lost search for loss, the holy mendicant con-man like a looming gray cloud descending upon guileless mankind—I miss my dear saint Allen my soul-mate my holy goof Neal and Zen bodhisattva Japhy. I miss my angel Adrian who lit in me the candle of enlightenment whose own candle is burning no longer Adrian like Gerard Kerouac's elder brother the puresaint who left the world prematurely. Consequently this blog should be renamed Finding Kerouac, but Pushkin is also a respectable man who brought to Russia a soul—so did Kerouac to beatific America—but of what value can a blazing soul add to the modern man whose heart is a steel safebox of crisp bills? He will not have need of my flame: rather, I am a danger.