William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Perhaps all pleasure is only relief. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. open your mind and let the pictures out. that old feeling is still in my leaking heart. shouting out it wanted equal rights. nothing did any good, so, the brain couldn't and then finally.

After a shooting spree, they always want to take the guns away from the people who didn't do it. i sure as hell wouldn't want to live in a society where the only people allowed guns are the police and the military. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. 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. sometimes paranoia's just having all the facts. 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. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. 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. 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. writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. there are things i wish i could forget. there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. it's the little touches that make a future solid enough to destroy. the dream is a spontaneous happening and therefore dangerous to a control system set-up by the non-dreamers there is in fact something obscene and sinister about photography, a desire to imprison, to incorporate, a sexual intensity of pursuit. "because we don't need you after that, he began waking up in the morning with transparentjelly... all over his mouth. so, finally, his mouth sealed over... except for the eyes, you dig? of the brain behind the eyes. and then finally because the eyes went out... and there was no more feeling in them.

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. 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 only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do. smash the control images. smash the control machine. 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. whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction. 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 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 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 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. 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 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. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. 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... like all pure creatures, cats are practical. 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 and started eating. day and night. nothing did any good, i can talk and eat and shit." like a tadpole's tail and the pieces would stick to his hands... it needed the eyes. for a while, you could see... because the eyes went out... and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk..