all those rides, all those pages of Kerouac, all that jail, to die alone under a frozen Mexican moon, alone, you understand? can’t you see the miserable puny cactii? Mexico is not a bad place because it is simply oppressed; Mexico is simply a bad place. can’t you see the desert animals watching? the frogs, horned and simple, the snakes like slits of men’s minds crawling, stopping, waiting, dumb under a dumb Mexican moon. reptiles, flicks of things, looking across this guy in the sand in a white t- shirt. Neal, he’d found his movement, hurt nobody. the tough young jail kid laying it down alongside a Mexican railroad track. the only night I met him I said, “Kerouac has written all your other chapters. I’ve already written your last one.” “go ahead,” he said, “write it.” end copy.