William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. which came first the intestine or the tapeworm? love is a haunting melody that i have never mastered, and i fear i never will. 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 there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? we are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of true romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. i do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. this is what makes your self-respect so important, and i don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness same as any other mouth. screaming at it to shut up... and the asshole said to him... would have amputated spontaneously for a while, you could see....

A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. be just and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. as soon as you know you are in prison, you have a possibility to escape. there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive. nobody loved it. same as any other mouth. beating at it with his fists....

Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. most of the trouble in this world has been caused by folks who can't mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus has. nothing is true, everything is permitted. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. in my writing i am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and i see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed. the only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do. smash the control images. smash the control machine. which came first the intestine or the tapeworm? a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. a psychotic is a guy who's just found out what's going on. love is a haunting melody that i have never mastered, and i fear i never will. i am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. 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. my affections, being concentrated over a few people, are not spread all over hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky, worthless shits. 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. the face of 'evil' is always the face of total need. 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. 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... 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. we are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of true romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. i do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. this is what makes your self-respect so important, and i don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. open your mind and let the pictures out. 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. finally, it talked all the time, and grow there. and the whole head... would have amputated spontaneously the silent, helpless suffering as one judge said to another judge: be just. and if you can't be just, be arbitrary..