I want to be able to write like this girl. Bring mundane dailies to life with a click of the keys and a flick of my finger. Invest myself in myself. But while I talk excitedly with certain friends who dig as we burn burn burn into the NYC night, it is difficult to find those moments ever-present when alone. Do you dig?

See, my hippie-in-crime and I send each other poetry in the form of Jack Kerouac Dharma Bums quotes left on voicemail, or while discussing the impact of The Killers "Human" on the world via virtual communication while we are both surrounded by friends and the constant buzzing of populated cities - the white noise that won't seem to stop and yet we still find poetry within it.

Years ago we used to sit in smoky hookah bars and get high on a lack of oxygen, alcohol and the Ever-present Being as we would talk for hours wrapped in the dim and din of those caves. Passing hookah hose along with favorite quotes, admitting that yes, "sometimes the light's all shining on me, other times I can hardly see" but that is the beauty of life. That even the Grateful Dead were connected enough to know that the Light of Hashem is so powerful it can be blinding. How we would admire our every day heroes until it was time to "just catch the next bus" until we'd reach the time to catch the last and say that if only we lived in the city we could stay up until sunrise. Continue talking about the Rebbe's potential to be moshiach or what steps we are taking to ensure the most spiritual growth possible.

We wanted to be stars bursting on the night sky. We wanted to be a revival of the beat generation. We wanted to be Kerouac and Ginsberg reincarnate. We wanted to be ourselves, present in every moment which would become the Now happening over and over and over again if you would only allow yourself to tune in enough. Now. Did you feel it? Now. This moment - can you feel it? And how we would try to immerse every ounce of our being so that the moment would swallow us whole like a lotus.

If there was ever a teacher with a larger curriculum, well, I've yet to meet her.

My friend, my hippie-in-crime, my soul brotha,' the man who cried the day James Brown died, the man who spent a lifetime learning about legends, creates his own greatness and then aspires to be it. And I, well, I try not to feel too alone on this journey. Try not to get too wrapped up in my own thoughts. Remember that there's a world out there that wants to swallow me whole in all kinds of ways if only I let it.

And every time he asks me to meet him, I know it's on the corner. The problem is trying to figure out which but no matter. Because either way, under every night sky in every country and every parallel universe we will always burn burn burn because that is the only way we know how to truly live. . .