kerouac says

he comes home tomorrow, and i'm feeling a little stiff about it, but that's okay, because i have cultivated a small exhaustion about worrying for the time being and will not do it tonight. we will probably have some hot sex and some arguments and take-out dinners. there will probably be time for me to talk about what the summer has been like, and this stiffness will probably melt away once i'm an hour away from laguardia. i feel a little like i'm bald, and don't know what i'm going to look like when my hair grows in, although i know that, generally, i miss it and would rather it came back.

my mom left, and for the last days she was here i managed not to think constantly of death and dying. it was a large success. i think we had a pretty good time. i think i was better at being a pal with her than i've ever been. she is ridiculous, and fascinating, and bizarre, and inappropriate and not a good role model, and she is wonderful, and i love her, and i didn't cry when the shuttle man picked her up to take her away from here. it was all pretty supremely okay. it was actually as simple as a mom coming to visit a kid who lived away, and it was surprising to find it didn't have to be any more Wagnerian than that.

i have one more night to eat cookies in bed. i have one more night to pretend like i own the place. i have one more night to cry into my beer. and then it will be back to everything my old life is, the one i tried to do a good job picking out, and i will really not be sorry.