Thinking of the stars night after night I begin to realize 'The stars are words'

I usually try and put all the fictiony stuff separate from here, but fuck it. I'm here already. I was in a terrible bus today. Single decker, seats that look like you could lift them up and the windows were all too high. So I shuffled down, trying not to feel like a child and I cracked open the last two chapters of my book. The book I bought based on a recommendation from a character in another book. Everything is breathless and I'm not sure if half of those words were typos or if he meant them. It's writing, pure writing. Not fiction. An amalgamation of thoughts in various places with no real connection but the thinker. Reading it I almost missed my stop, then when I sat on my bench I almost missed my class dreaming past the white pages at the leaves that keep on falling and I counted every used up butt, every pile of ash, every chewed up wad of white gum. I scanned for treasure but found nothing worth taking home. The thing with Kerouac is every time I read him I fall in love. The front cover has this blurry half a smile and I fall in love. Sometimes I feel like all I do is fall in love with writers. Every good book I finish I adore and it consumes me until I read another one until my head is just this mush. Bits and pieces from films and songs and books and poems. Colours and feelings I try to hold onto. I've fallen in love with a dead man's words and saying that I know what is wrong with him and I know that I should never ever let him sink into my writing consciousness but there's this terrible longing for some mundane adventure. The ones you get sitting in crowded flats with the cheapest red wine you can buy that still contains alcohol. Maybe I've been unlucky. My first year at least I found a few interesting people. Seems like these classes are just full of class A bores.