After all, there’s no turning back the clock now. One can’t be forever dwelling on what might have been. One should realize one has as good as most, perhaps better, and be grateful.

For there’s a part of me would like no better than to take you and the bairn and go far away, to spend the rest of my life working the fields and the beasts, to come in in the evenings and lie beside ye, quiet through the night.

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

Home in Missoula, Home in Truckee, Home in Opelousas, Ain't no home for me.  Home in old Medora,  Home in Wounded Knee,  Home in Ogallala,  Home I'll never be

Written By Jack Kerouac

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