Gas stations ornately sprinkle the land in bright red, neon, luminescence.
Kerouac on nickels and dimes transcended the arteries that made America.
The highways, byways, and scenic routes of this country; when he ran out of funds he slept where he could. Working at KFC, I knew all was right because Kerouac had come and slept at a gas station nearby. The legend of his sleeping at the corner of State Road 66 was a calling to my need to free myself from the bonds of Longmont Colorado. Not that there was anything wrong with Longmont, I just knew I had to drive away from there.
The yearning was strongest when I turned 16 and I got my driving license. It was like a ghostly song that never quit faded away, and never changed its tune. On and on it went like the picking up of speed as the tires turned against the black pavement.
So I went.
I knew it was all right for my life could be intertwined in the drama started by Kerouac and ending in a back road in Longmont Colorado.
I knew it was all right!
And it was all right!
And it was all right!
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