It was my first time to Paris. A few months shy of my twentieth birthday, I wandered aimlessly around the city. Luckily I soon befriended a backpacking stranger. He was an American ten years my senior and had been in Paris for months. Had it all figured out. He showed me around, took me to some places. Set me up. At coffee the morning he departed to head to Milan he asked me if I read Kerouac and handed me his copy of On The Road. I never saw him again, but wish I could thank my accidental friend.
“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” ― Jack Kerouac. Happy birthday. Thank you for the endless inspiration.