Dear Bill,

I do not plan to come to N.Y. I am going up to the border for a new tourist card, and will return the same day. If Jack wants to talk to me he will have to come to Mexico City or at least to the border[1].

It’s such an agreeable air down here in the heat. No-one cares for the lame seeking fame and why would they? The humans here are loose and dance with no consideration for being presentable. Save your ink for another time.

Some visions have been put to paper. Some may be put onto canvas. It is the extension from surface to space which is an obstacle I’ve yet to overcome. Too many boxes, and there’s nothing within. Maybe I should get a pussy to keep me company? I’ve seen them play for hours with empty packages. Crude.

The new space is a relief from the last cell, but still a few steps are to be taken until the mould breaks. Maybe Putin will destroy everything before I get to the border…sometimes I hope so, but he’s too clever for that. He knows where the mouse is.

I have some difficult writing ahead. Do not jerk-off to hastily posted online comments .







[1] The Letters of William S. Burroughs 1945-59. (Ed, Oliver Harris). Picador. London. 1994


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