One hundred and twenty feet of teletype paper.
Jack Kerouac lines it up into the typewriter.
Coffee, cigarettes, and benzadrine.
For weeks, Jack bleeds his soul on to the paper.
Screaming. Howling.
And then… finished!
Crawling to the bathroom, he pulls down his pants, his underwear.
Pushing and straining, squeezing his body like a tube of toothpaste.
One hundred and twenty feet of toilet paper.
Jack Kerouac lines it up along his buttocks.
For hours, Jack shits his guts out on to the paper.
Screaming. Howling.
And then… finished!
He flushes, and the toilet backs up.
Where is the plunger?