William S. Burroughs Ipsum

A functioning police state needs no police. our national drug is alcohol. we tend to regard the use any other drug with special horror. how i hate those who are dedicated to producing conformity. the aim of education is the knowledge, not of facts, but of values. 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 dream is a spontaneous happening and therefore dangerous to a control system set-up by the non-dreamers 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. as soon as you know you are in prison, you have a possibility to escape. and started eating. finally, it talked all the time, beating at it with his fists... and grow there. it needed the eyes. 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.

Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. our national drug is alcohol. we tend to regard the use any other drug with special horror. a paranoid is someone who knows a little of what's going on. a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. 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. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. love is a haunting melody that i have never mastered, and i fear i never will. 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 love? what is it? most natural painkiller what there is. there is nothing more provocative than minding your own business. smash the control images. smash the control machine. hustlers of the world, there is one mark you cannot beat: the mark inside. 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 did i ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? his whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. and it wanted to be kissed, same as any other mouth. you could hear him for blocks, and the asshole said to him... except for the eyes, you dig? it needed the eyes. sealed off. 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.

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. after one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'i want to see the manager.' 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. 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. in deep sadness there is no place for sentimentality. junk is the ideal product... the ultimate merchandise. no sales talk necessary. the client will crawl through a sewer and beg to buy. you can't fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal. your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative. if i had my way we'd sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes. 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. smash the control images. smash the control machine. 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... a cat's rage is beautiful, burning with pure cat flame, all its hair standing up and crackling blue sparks, eyes blazing and sputtering. panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive. open your mind and let the pictures out. little raspy incurving hooks and built an act around it... his pants and start talking on the street... like a tadpole's tail sealed off. for a while, you could see... and then finally as one judge said to another judge: be just. and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. 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.