Lonesome Traveler by Jack Kerouac (1960)

After all this kind of fanfare, and ever more, I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of thinking and enjoying what they call “living”, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.

Everything is perfect on the street again, the world is permeated with roses of happiness all the time, but none of us know it. The happiness consists in realizing that it is all a great strange dream

Coming soon