kerouacian port wine fueled high speed myths of all night drinking bouts of smoky, hazed jazz clubs filled with legends of their colored musician evenings, Camus, describing the blue prints of rebellion while I questioning my own philosophy personal values and morals or lack thereof on my individual historical record inscribed for all times my own secret idea of a gratifying satisfying end to be met happily dead on like a Kennedy-ish bullet to the brain talked about for ages the fulfillment of a destiny which transcends time my words and their naked honesty for all to absorb into their forever.