Currently reading: Windblown World,

the journals of Jack Kerouac from 1947-1954.

I've never peeked into such a beautiful mind before his. 

Your mind had a soul of it's own, Kerouac. A mad, strange, inflammable soul.

Wherever I wander in my peripatetic life,
 I'll make sure to keep alongside a spiral notebook and a pack of cigarettes. 
All in honor of dearest you, of course. 
Ennui, I'll never accept it.