People wonder about my deep-seated need for solitude, for my chronic non-involvement in random streams of peoples’ conceptual thinking, for the overwhelming beauty of meditation. This sad great intellectual hero of my semi-depressive cloudy days of youth represents this desperate requirement so succinctly:
my conscience of life and eternity is not a mistake, or a loneliness, or a foolishness — but a warm dear love of our poor predicament. Jack Kerouac
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