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, and in the middle, you see the blue center-light pop, and everybody goes ahh...

Here I was at the end of America - no more land - and now there was nowhere to go but back.

It's a road trip! It's about adventure! . . . It's not like we have somewhere to go.

I suddenly realized I was in California. Warm, palmy air - air you can kiss - and palms.

Now, on this road trip, my mind seemed to uncrinkle, to breathe, to present to itself a cure for a disease it had not, until now, known it had.

The concept of time, as it’s commonly understood by normal
people with normal jobs and normal goddamn lives, doesn’t
exist on the road. The nights spread out like the dark,
godforsaken highways that distinguish them, and the days run
together like Thanksgiving dinner smothered in gravy. You
never really know where you are or what time it is, and the outside
world starts to fade away.
It’s cool.