Jack Kerouac. On the road (№ 413882)

I woke up when the sun was red, and it was the only distinct time in my life, the strangest moment when I didn't know who I was: far from home, driven and tortured by travel, in a cheap room I had never seen before, steam whistling outside the window, old hotel wood crackling, footsteps upstairs and all these sad sounds, and I looked at the high ceiling all in cracks, and for fifteen strange seconds I really didn't know who I was. It's not scary; it's just that I'm someone else, some stranger, and my whole life is ghostly, it's a ghost.