William S. Burroughs Ipsum

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. 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. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. panic is the sudden realization that everything around you is alive. it would get drunk, too, and have crying jags. finally, it talked all the time, the silent, helpless suffering i began to get a feeling (...) of being the only sane man in a nut house. it doesn't make you feel superior but depressed and scared, because there is nobody you can contact. this is a war universe. war all the time. that is its nature. there may be other universes based on all sorts of other principles, but ours seems to be based on war and games. all games are basically hostile. winners and losers. we see them all around us: the winners and the losers. the losers can oftentimes become winners, and the winners can very easily become losers. now, killing a centipede makes me feel safer - like, one less. i had the feeling that some horrible image was just beyond the field of vision, moving, as i turned my head, so that i never quite saw it. (a boat in lake.) i was afraid it would turn over at high speed. the self is like a pimping blackmailing chauffeur who gets you from here to there on word lines. i got the fear!.

After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say 'i want to see the manager.' in my writing i am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space, and i see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed. silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing. whether you sniff it smoke it eat it or shove it up your ass the result is the same: addiction. smash the control images. smash the control machine. nothing exists until or unless it is observed. an artist is making something exist by observing it. and his hope for other people is that they will also make it exist by observing it. i call it 'creative observation.' creative viewing. i bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love. whenever you are threatened by a hostile presence, you emit a thick cloud of love like an octopus squirts out ink... 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. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. in homosexual sex you know exactly what the other person is feeling, so you are identifying with the other person completely. in heterosexual sex you have no idea what the other person is feeling. whether you like it or not, you are committed to the human endeavor. i cannot ally myself with such a purely negative goal as avoidance of suffering. suffering is a chance you take by the fact of being alive. open your mind and let the pictures out. and it wanted to be kissed, finally, it talked all the time, he would tear it off his mouth except for the eyes, you dig? sealed off. dream long enough and dream hard enough you will come to know dreaming can make it so... many doctors are drawn to this profession (psychology) because they have an innate deficiency of insight into the motives, feelings and thoughts of others, a deficiency they hope to remedy by ingesting masses of data. now, killing a centipede makes me feel safer - like, one less. the 'other half' is the word. the 'other half' is an organism. word is an organism. the presence of the 'other half' is a separate organism attached to your nervous system on an air line of words can now be demonstrated experimentally. one of the most common 'hallucinations' of subject during sense withdrawal is the feeling of another body sprawled through the subject's body at an angle...yes quite an angle it is the 'other half' worked quite some years on a symbiotic basis. from symbiosis to parasitism is a short step. the word is now a virus. the flu virus may have once been a healthy lung cell. it is now a parasitic organism that invades and damages the central nervous system. modern man has lost the option of silence. try halting sub-vocal speech. try to achieve even ten seconds of inner silence. you will encounter a resisting organism that forces you to talk. that organism is the word. 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. nothing happens by coincidence. death needs time for what it kills to grow in. i prefer cats to people, for the most part. most people aren't cute, and if they are cute they rapidly outgrow it. if a weaker baboon be attacked by a stronger baboon the weaker baboon will either (a) present his hrump fanny i believe is the word, gentlemen, heh heh for passive intercourse or (b) if he is a different type baboon more extrovert and well-adjusted, lead an attack on an even weaker baboon if he can find one. after bill got his shot, a little color crept into his face and he would become almost coy. it was a gruesome sight. i remember once he told me how he'd been propositioned by a queer who offered him twenty dollars. bill declined, saying "i don't think you would be very well satisfied." bill twitched his fleshless hips. "you should see me in the nude," he said. "i'm really cute..

Anything that can be done chemically can be done by other means. be just and if you can't be just, be arbitrary. the face of evil is always the face of total need. the only possible ethic is to do what one wants to do. smash the control images. smash the control machine. 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. knowing you might not make it... in that knowledge courage is born. you know a real friend? someone you know will look after your cat after you are gone. as soon as you know you are in prison, you have a possibility to escape. in the magical universe there are no coincidences and there are no accidents. nothing happens unless someone wills it to happen. that's the one thing confusion hath fuck his masterpiece. the american uppermiddle-class citizen is a composite of negatives. he is largely delineated by what he is not. how long does it take man to realize that he cannot want what he wants? you have to live in hell to see heaven. cowboy: new york hood talk means kill the mother fucker wherever you find him. a rat is a rat is a rat is a rat. is an informer. they say only love can create, so who the fuck could love up a centipede? he's got more love in him than i got. the rudeness of many americans depressed him, a rudeness based on a solid ignorance of the whole concept of manners, and on the proposition that for social purposes, all people are more or less equal and interchangeable. or a joke." to all the scribes and artists and practitioners of magic through whom these spirits have been manifested... nothing is true. everything is permitted. if you wish to alter or annihilate a pyramid of numbers in a serial relation, you alter or remove the bottom number. if we wish to annihilate the junk pyramid, we must start with the bottom of the pyramid: the addict in the street, and stop tilting quixotically for the "higher ups" so called, all of whom are immediately replaceable. the addict in the street who must have junk to live is the one irreplaceable factor in the junk equation. when there are no more addicts to buy junk there will be no junk traffic. as long as junk need exists, someone will service it. a curse. been in our family for generations. the lees have always been perverts. i shall never forget the unspeakable horror that froze the lymph in my glands--the lymph glands that is, of course--when the baneful word seared my reeling brain: i was a homosexual. i thought of the painted, simpering female impersonators i'd seen in a baltimore nightclub. could it be possible i was one of those subhuman things? i walked the streets in a daze like a man with a light concussion--just a minute, doctor kildare, this isn't your script. i might well destroyed myself, ending an existence which seemed to offer nothing but grotesque misery and humiliation. nobler, i thought, to die a man than live on, a sex monster. it was a wise old queen--bobo, we called her--who taught me that i had a duty to live and bear my burden proudly for all to see, to conquer prejudice and ignorance and hate with knowledge and sincerity and love. and there are my cats, engaged in a ritual that goes back thousands of years, tranquilly licking themselves after the meal. practical animals, they prefer to have others provide the food ... some of them do. there must have been a split between the cats who accepted domestication and those who did not. moor did not have tuberculosis or kidney trouble or undulant fever.he was sick with the sickness of death.death was in every cell of his body..