There is an undoubtable possibility that I was Jack Kerouac in another kalpa.
When I read his work I experience it as if I am re-reading an old journal entry.
I remember remembering it and I remember living it as I live it again.
I wonder how many of us were Jack and if I will cross paths with a similar speck of the stardust of him that is now me, us.
Who am I kidding, three of them have already crossed my path and with two I have locked lips.
There is nothing comparable to a Jack Kerouac stardust kiss.
Like the wings of a bird you will never miss because they don't enter the house where your heart lives.
I lived to die and be reborn as this.
I, us, we and his.
Dharma bum kids.