William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is. after one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say i want to see the manager. when you stop growing you start dying. cheat your landlord if you can -- and must -- but do not try to shortchange the muse. like all pure creatures, cats are practical. i can talk and eat and shit." all over his mouth. he would tear it off his mouth that's the one thing it was trapped inside the skull....

. Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. language is a virus from outer space. 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. perhaps all pleasure is only relief. your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative. nobody owns life, but anyone who can pick up a frying pan owns death. love is a haunting melody that i have never mastered, and i fear i never will. there are no innocent bystanders... what are they doing there in the first place? there couldn't be a society of people who didn't dream. they'd be dead in two weeks. thou shalt not be such a shit, you don't know you are one. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. 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. like all pure creatures, cats are practical. it was unlike anything i ever heard. bubbly, thick, stagnant sound. a sound you could smell. this man worked for the carnival, you dig? little raspy incurving hooks same as any other mouth. screaming at it to shut up... beating at it with his fists... around here anymore. i can talk and eat and shit." and the pieces would stick to his hands... like burning gasoline jelly that's the one thing.

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'i want to see the manager.' in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. desperation is the raw material of drastic change. only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. there is nothing more provocative than minding your own business. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. 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. he thought this was cute at first and built an act around it... it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. around here anymore. that the asshole couldn't do was see. and infiltrated and atrophied..