Jumble

“That’s right where I lost it – trying to remember how I got there, for then the onrushing memory of those events tangled with my own American or “real-life” memories and everything became jumbled just like a shortwave radio at midnight that brings sounds from all over the world in a discordant but definite MEDLEY. I’d been there; I knew I’d been there; and now I’d never know how, or when, or why, or what, and life was still a foolish hassle when the vision died down and I stood dreaming on the pavement.”

Kerouac, Jack. « To Neal Cassady, Jan. 8, 1951 », Selected Letters 1940-1956. Penguin Books, 1995, New York. Page 280.