I fear mostly my inability to capture all the things that come, I fear their mysterious source, I fear their fate, I fear me, in short. This is true…it’s like finding a river of gold when you haven’t even got a cup to save a cupfull…you’ve but a thimble, and that thimble is your pathetic brain and labour and humanness.

Jack Kerouac, Journals: June 16th, 1948

(Source: keroassady, via artgarfunkel-)

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