the house of emil white

Big Sur trees and seemingly angry ocean waves.  Kerouac in a cabin trying desperately to save his life. The air exudes literature and the struggle that is writing – (and living) – at least for me it does.

My mind is full of wonderings about those who wrote me here with their words and made it feel like home.  I cannot help but spill with the joy that is no longer buried under a fog of mediocre existence.  Constantly evolving mind and soul you never give up.  Endlessly searching cycles of you repeat themselves with variations in bravery and grace.

I could stare for hours at your froths of icy blue while fondling the books of my mentors and stepping lightly on creaky wooden floors.

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