William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. thou shalt not be such a shit, you don't know you are one. and there was no more feeling in them.

. Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. 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. every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. 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. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. the aim of education is the knowledge, not of facts, but of values. smash the control images. smash the control machine. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. in the u.s. you have to be a deviant or die of boredom. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? 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. like all pure creatures, cats are practical. 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. it was unlike anything i ever heard. bubbly, thick, stagnant sound. a sound you could smell. this man worked for the carnival, you dig? shouting out it wanted equal rights. you could hear him for blocks, beating at it with his fists... after that, he began waking up like a tadpole's tail it was trapped inside the skull... for a while, you could see....

Language is a virus from outer space. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. a functioning police state needs no police. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. i am getting so far out one day i won't come back at all. the aim of education is the knowledge, not of facts, but of values. perhaps all pleasure is only relief. smash the control images. smash the control machine. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. there is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. it is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. 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. nothing is true, everything is permitted. little raspy incurving hooks and it wanted to be kissed, finally, it talked all the time, day and night. and the pieces would stick to his hands... nerve connections were blocked... and then finally because the eyes went out... out of the closets and into the museums, libraries, architectural monuments, concert halls, bookstores, recording studios and film studios of the world. everything belongs to the inspired and dedicated thief.... words, colors, light, sounds, stone, wood, bronze belong to the living artist. they belong to anyone who can use them. loot the louvre! a bas l'originalit.