Hey Jack Kerouac, Part II
Really, Jack Kerouac was once so amazing, and I would have shamelessly chased him around when he was young and beautiful and angsty and idealistic, before he became a totally gone alcoholic former hipster angrily spewing forth bloated hateful bile in his overly dominant mother's home in Florida, renouncing all of his hepcat Zen ways and pushing away everyone who had adored him.
(That was a poor attempt to write just a bit like him.)
So let's just look at him when he was so fine:
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