William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Language is a virus from outer space. a functioning police state needs no police. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: the mark inside. i am getting so far out one day i won't come back at all. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. you were not there for the beginning. you will not be there for the end. your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative smash the control images. smash the control machine. 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... thou shalt not be such a shit, you don't know you are one. 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. it's the little touches that make a future solid enough to destroy. 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. it is to be remembered that all art is magical in origin - music, sculpture, writing, painting - and by magical i mean intended to produce very definite results. paintings were originally formulae to make what is painted happen. art is not an end in itself, any more than einstein's matter-into-energy formulae is an end in itself. like all formulae, art was originally functional, intended to make things happen, the way an atom bomb happens from einstein's formulae. i am not a person and i am not an animal. there is something i am here for something i must do before i can go. that old feeling is still in my leaking heart. and started eating. nobody loved it. screaming at it to shut up... nothing did any good, he would tear it off his mouth and the whole head... that the asshole couldn't do was see. nerve connections were blocked... and infiltrated and atrophied. sealed off. than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk. what a horrible loutish planet this is. the dominant species consists of sadistic morons, faces bearing the hideous lineaments of spiritual famine swollen with stupid hate. hopeless rubbish..

Junk is the ideal product... the ultimate merchandise. no sales talk necessary. the client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. the aim of education is the knowledge, not of facts, but of values. the face of evil is always the face of total need. which came first the intestine or the tapeworm? silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. there is nothing more provocative than minding your own business. i miss you so much your absence causes me, at times, accute pain. i don't mean sexually. i mean in connection with my writing. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. it's the little touches that make a future solid enough to destroy. whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. i cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive. and to start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. after a while, the ass started talking on its own. he would go in without anything prepared... and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time. little raspy incurving hooks and built an act around it... it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. around here anymore. and the pieces would stick to his hands... and the whole head... it needed the eyes. the brain must have died... because the eyes went out....

Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. man is an artifact designed for space travel. he is not designed to remain in his present biologic state any more than a tadpole is designed to remain a tadpole. the cat does not offer services. the cat offers itself. of course he wants care and shelter. you don't buy love for nothing. you can't fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. 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. never do business with a religious son-of-a-bitch. his word ain't worth a shit -- not with the good lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. there are things i wish i could forget. it's the little touches that make a future solid enough to destroy. 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. whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. i cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive. little raspy incurving hooks it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. finally, it talked all the time, in the end, not me... "because we don't need you i can talk and eat and shit." he would tear it off his mouth that's the one thing nerve connections were blocked... and infiltrated and atrophied. and then finally.