Jack Kerouac. The Dharma Bums (№ 198832)

It happens in the woods, they always look familiar, long-forgotten, like the face of a long dead relative, like a long sleep, as borne by the waves a fragment of forgotten song, and most of all like Golden eternities of past childhood or past life, just living and dying, a million years ago that's the same aching heart, and the clouds drifting over head, confirmed this sense of his lonely znakomomu.