My head feels like a rubber ball, it is sort of sqreshing in a diagonal motion, there is a big vagina on my wall, and the other part has zits butt I hope those workmen don't barge into my room and drill a hole in my face like they did this morning. They had voices like police officers, and they came upon me cowering naked in my closet huddled in a blanket, thinking it was the CIA come to get me for being a nice guy, and I sort of smiled and then they grabbed me and DRILLED A BIG HOLE IN MY FACE and installed a phone jack, three lightsockets which they proceeded to plug all my appliances into into my face, and then left, muttering in NorthEndese that they would be back tomorrow, please proceed with your regular schedule.

But then I found Christ in the form of William S Burroghs, whom I thought somehow got famous for "just writing down the garbage that came out of his brain when he was on drugs". Little did I know. You have to be in the exact right was, you have to get those submuscles pumped, you can't give it the old college try, but sometimes, somehow it clicks (especially if you are filled with nervous energy, panic residual and bobgrins after having your face permanently violated by machinery as part of the routine of Machine Men)

Machine men are bad, Burroughs is good, circling numbers on a piece of paper for 4 hours thinks it will be good, and then is bad, and then is good. Especially if there are chicks in your medical test subject guinea pig for toxic chemicals inserted into eyeball group which appear interesting for the first five minutes and then turn into all the rest, because you can make them pee their pants and say "excuse me". But more of that after evening edition. Ten bucks an hour to pretend to work, and I don't really know if it's worth it.

Salvador Dali's painting "the ship" I think is the perfect rendition of the phenomenon which this underlies, of letting yourself become so hypersensitive to minute details in your environment that the traffic dragging its 5am heavy truck over your skull and bones becomes a string, the drinking founten (sic) down the hall ripping your throat out becomes a string, the appearance of all things as variations on genitalia making you horny as a charging rhinoceros becomes a string, the magic and loss and fitful dreams of the artist in the cupboard (WSB in this bookcase) becomes a string, and you, the marionette, dancing to the beat of the ten senses and the twenty needs and the thirty deadly fears, all pulling upon each other as they pull upon you, become transfigured as you lose yourself, and the intricate motions of all the many strings form a greater pattern of the unseen being who takes the form of a ship, on whose mast you stand crucified, your body a tingling vessel for the experience of all the ten thousand things, and the One which is the ship itself, plunging blindfolded through the sea of the Unknowable, unable to sense the water directly but constantly immersed in its periphery, splashed about like a bottle in a tempest, though your feet still stand on Terra Firma. And when a frigid breeze wafts in the open window, the sails unfurl. Amen

When you feel yourself falling, dive. -Daedalus QPM 1