Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because 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.
Jack Kerouac, On the Road (1957)
