San Francisco

I found Kerouac's The Subterraneans at a used bookstore on a side street I couldn't find again somewhere between a rise and fall of a San Francisco side street. I bought it for $4, the worn cover with it's original price of $1.50 laughing at me. The pages crumbled when I carelessly tossed it in my bag, I became more careful and noticed the scotch tape holding together the spine. I found my way back into the stream of Jack, Mardou and Leo, bop, tea, mania, existentialism, careless love, selfishness, destructive drunk nights, lovers, hipsters, machismo...

I was halfway done on the plane back East. I was going to mail it to a friend at the end of the summer, before I forgot it in the seat back pocket of row 20.