And she kissed him until the sky seemed to fade out, and all of her smiles and tears to vanish, in an ecstasy of eternal seconds
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Ice Palace
The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
— Jack Kerouac, On the Road
