Dean

So who am I supposed to ask about the symbiotic and metamorphazizing probabilaty of the so-called soul?

I looked to you Mr. Dean Moriarty,

Traverser of dreams, and of moonlight, of wit, and borrowerd cigi-boos.

The warmth of wine, calming

Passed around in circles of old friends

And through ghosts of the past, haunting me unwillingly.

Your only conclusion and the only thing that you know is that we are certain to grow old...you schmuck.

While I know in my mind and through the whispers heard in the wind that you are correct

I refuse to accept this as the only truth about the life and the no-soul.