It's my birthday. I'm 30 now. Know how it feels. Like fuckin' 30. Which is what 26 and 28 felt like. Next year will be worse.

We're heading through Lawrence. Trying to find the house of William Seward Burroughs. The Godfather of Beat. The man that changed my idea of what writing could be as an "artistic expression."

He wasn't a good man per se. But a brilliant one. Not a man I'd want for a father, but a friend.

We stop outside what we assume is his house. Molly gets out to take her pictures. And I sit outside the car and look up and down the street. I'm looking for cats. He was a man that loved cats.

I reach in my pocket and look in my empty pack of cigarettes to find that I only have 40 Lortabs, 13 morphine 30s and two methadone wafers. Sure, it sounds like a lot, but we got a long way to go. Luckily, I've been to Denver before. And, if you know what to look for, you can find anything in anytown anywhere across the excess that is America. Like I said.

Instinct.