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That night in Harrisburg I had to sleep in the railroad station on a bench; at dawn the station masters threw me out.  Isn’t it true that you start your life a sweet child believing everything under your father’s roof?  Then comes the day of the Laodiceans, when you know you are wretched and poor and miserable and blind and naked, and with the visage of a gruesome, grieving ghost you go shuddering through nightmare life.

I stumbled haggardly out of the station; I had no more control.  All I could see of the morning was a whiteness like the whiteness of the tomb.  I was starving to death.  All I had left in the form of calories were the last of the cough drops I’d bought in Shelton, Nebraska, months ago; these I sucked for their sugar.  I didn’t know how to panhandle.  I stumbled out of town with barely enough strength to reach the city limits.  I knew I’d be arrested if I spent another night in Harrisburg.  Cursed City!

On The Road.  Jack Kerouac.  1955

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