I finished Jack Kerouac's On the Road today, and found the experience significant enough to write about here. People have been telling me to read this since Ben recommended it freshman year of college 5+ years ago, though it seems fitting that I should finally read it after reaching Japan. I'll be honest; the book didn't make it on to my Top 20 list, but every time I picked it up I felt an incredible invigoration that I tried to hold on to as long as possible while the memory of Kerouac's breathless prose still surged through me. I read the last two sections in one sitting and my mind spun with possibilities for adventure and that I can't quite put into words right now, and haven't been able to for a long time. That a writer can provoke such a feeling, even with just one sentence, is proof of the sheer power of the medium.