william s. burroughs

a month ago, i was drunk on a boat with the love of my life. it was the most conceptually pleasing thing i'd done in a long time. i've since decided that having a nice life is rather empty. i used to have a life full of 'nice' things that pleased me in thought. i'd think to myself, "this morning i sat by the window staring at the rain and listening to the beautiful noise it made on the glass. i ate an apple and drank a cup of coffee and wrote furiously about nothing. i did not see anyone, or do anything. i sat inside and stained my hands with ink. what a nice little life i have." i constantly put concept together with concept, sound and image and feeling. i was rather unhappy. life means nothing if it's pretty, especially when you keep it to yourself.

and that had nothing whatsoever to do with william burroughs.