Holy flowers floating in the air, were all these tired faces in the dawn of Jazz America.
This is an English sentence, but for me it sounds like a sound, so I can type it without looking at the text of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.
Before reading Whitman, I was absorbed in jazz and came across On the Road.
Thinking Japanese high school which has the jazz club is not usual, the phrase beginning with “holy flowers” has floated up again in my mind.
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