Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy - Jack Kerouac

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.

She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost; like drowning in a witches' brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike.

Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.