When I was home I fell into a disgusting state of stagnation and excess, said Burroughs. I looked up and that was all. Sweat and smell arose from my hopes.
Did you know the imagination leaves the gifted amongst us hopelessly adrift? You say there are no creatives except those with original ideas. Who on earth can claim the original idea from which all sprang? I don’t think it was my neighbour. He growls at moving the bins.
Was it God? If he existed he never had an original idea because he never wrote His own story. Sometimes it pays to pay attention to the heap of clothes in the doorway. There’s originality in the brutality purist sense.
Very few people have empathy or any real courage to create something nowadays. It’s all status and property: a tomb one works for day in, die out. Never upset the rhythm or you’ll never own your own crypt.
A cross word is all it takes with Lichtenstein to get you in the cell. There’s no lawyer, only the Judge – and their book is full of morals no-one else has heard of. You’d get better legal advice from the heap of clothes.