William S. Burroughs Ipsum

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. in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. cheat your landlord if you can -- and must -- but do not try to shortchange the muse. his pants and start talking on the street... nobody loved it. in the end, not me... i can talk and eat and shit." all over his mouth. it needed the eyes. and there was no more feeling in them.

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. our national drug is alcohol. we tend to regard the use any other drug with special horror. 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. in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. 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. be just and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. i am getting so far out one day i won't come back at all. junk is the ideal product... the ultimate merchandise. no sales talk necessary. the client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. like all pure creatures, cats are practical. perhaps all pleasure is only relief. smash the control images. smash the control machine. your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative. 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. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. 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 hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: the mark inside. 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. nothing is true, everything is permitted. open your mind and let the pictures out. 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. but the asshole would eat its way through it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. finally, it talked all the time, nothing did any good, "it is you who will shut up except for the eyes, you dig? so, the brain couldn't and there was no more feeling in them 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..

A functioning police state needs no police. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. 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. he would tear it off his mouth that the asshole couldn't do was see. it was trapped inside the skull... than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk..