William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Be just and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. the first and most important thing an individual can do is to become an individual again, decontrol himself, train himself as to what is going on and win back as much independent ground for himself as possible love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. and the asshole said to him... in the morning with transparentjelly... all over his mouth..

Language is a virus from outer space. nothing is true, everything is permitted. junk is the ideal product... the ultimate merchandise. no sales talk necessary. the client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. the cat does not offer services. the cat offers itself. of course he wants care and shelter. you don't buy love for nothing. the only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do. i don't care if people hate my guts; i assume most of them do. the important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. i bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love. whenever you are threatened by a hostile presence, you emit a thick cloud of love like an octopus squirts out ink... the junk merchant doesn't sell his product to the consumer, he sells the consumer to his product. he does not improve and simplify his merchandise. he degrades and simplifies the client. i am getting so far out one day i won't come back at all. the best way to keep something bad from happening is to see it ahead of time... and you can't see it if you refuse to face the possibility. in homosexual sex you know exactly what the other person is feeling, so you are identifying with the other person completely. in heterosexual sex you have no idea what the other person is feeling. to be an outlaw you must first have a base in law to reject and get out of, i never had such a base. i never had a place i could call home that meant any more than a key to a house, apartment or hotel room. ... am i alien? alien from what exactly? perhaps my home is my dream city, more real than my waking life precisely because it has no relation to waking life... as a young child i wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. they lounged around singapore and rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. they sniffed cocaine in mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle. same as any other mouth. "it is you who will shut up he would tear it off his mouth and there was no more feeling in them.

The way to kill a man or a nation is to cut off his dreams, the way the whites are taking care of the indians: killing their dreams, their magic, their familiar spirits. love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is..