Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? - Ginsberg

found this strolling through my old emails, I can't believe I have pages upon pages in the hotmail account, the umich one of course, but hotmail, it just doesn't seem like I've been on there that long...
where will we go america? where are we going now? I miss the idea of apple pie, lakes, fishing, automobiles and endless trees and wanderings... I haven't been camping in four years, I only wander around downriver... the saddest days are always sundays, and the most soothing... sadness isn't about depression, it's about nostalgia and exhaustion. Maybe I am too young to be either, but I sure feel old... just where am I going? sometimes I like to think of my self in that Ginsberg poem, following him, following Whitman through the supermarket on out front under the lights just past sunset. There's Allen, Walt, and my self. We often talk briefly and end with a shoulder shrug as we each must leave in seperate directions, I'm the only one who watchs the other two wander off... knowing we'll meet again and again, endless times in my poetry, each time starting from the same words and going off on a tangent only to return to the same conclusions: the apples are pressed and preserved, the cars can't be fixed in your driveway anymore, and the lakes have become overcrowded with drunken idiots seeking some sort of salvation hidden in the myth of leisure time...