It was time for me to move on. My brain wonders how it can cram more art into just one sultry Sunday and I want to run from talking and dancing and acting and writing. And I, damn fool that I am, fell desperately in need with that special kind of escape that only a world of books can give, when there, amid shelf and stack, he was, novel in hand, walking a long hard line from the pink room to the orange. On the Road, crossing my path. Chatter chatter blah-blah. I stand in the back, thinking “God! Yes!” clasping my hands in prayer and sweat, “That is the American Voice.”
Reading Aloud. Spotted.