I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by stress frazzled overtired burnt-out 
jogging through suburban streets at dawn as suggested by the late James Fixx, 
career-minded yupsters burning for an Amstel Light watching Stupid Pet Tricks, 
who upwardly mobile and designer’d and bright-eyed and high sat up working in the track-lit glow of the Tribeca loft skimming through the Day Timer while padding the expense account, 
who passed through universities and saved their asses hallucinating Grateful Dead posters and eating Sara Lee while watching the war on TV, 
who were graduated and went on to law schools burning to save the world, 
who brewed decaffinated coffee doing their yoga in alligator shirts and listening to the latest Windham Hill Sampler, 
who ate chocolate croissants in outdoor café s and drank blush wine on Columbus Avenue washed down with a little Percodan with Dove bars with Diet coke with Lean Cuisine, 
stopping by on the way home for a pound of David’s cookies telling each other of their fears on intimacy and their need for space and inability to commit – for now,

– From Yowl, Christopher Buckley and Paul Slansky

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