Tag: Burroughs
-
Sabotage
Dig this, fuzzball: sabotage ain’t just about blowing shit up with a bang. It’s about the slow burn, the insidious creep, the gremlins whispering sweet nothings to your enemy’s machinery. Like a virus burrowing its way into their silicon brains, turning their finest plans to digital sludge. Forget car bombs and building demolitions – that’s…
-
Emporiun Imperium
Dig this, man. Imagine an emporium, a bazaar bursting with vibrant chaos. Spices from faraway lands mingle with trinkets of unknown purpose, hagglers weave their magic, and every corner whispers secrets under flickering lamplight. It’s a place of exchange, of haggling and hustling, a microcosm of life itself, messy, beautiful, and ever-shifting. See, the emporium…
-
Leaving Flatland
“Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted”― William S. Burroughs Feels like leaving Flatland. In addition to the usual three spatial co-ordinates, these notes have an extra label, which can act like a co-ordinate along space time. By tracking all four co-ordinates together, we map out in real time how a music moves in four dimensions. When…
-
The Meaning Of Meaning
The search for meaning – a junkie’s fix. Short, sharp rush of revelation, then the cold sweat of doubt dripping down your temples. You crave it, that high, the justification, the purpose. But meaning’s a cut with a dull blade, leaves you jittery, paranoid. It twists your words into weapons, turns your neighbors into threats.…
-
Anti-Communists
Absolutely. Buckle up, buttercup, for a word-bender that’d make Burroughs himself proud. The notion you propose – the Commies as ultimate anti-Communists? Now that’s a meat grinder of an idea, a Möbius strip of ideology. Let’s dissect this bugger with a rusty scalpel, shall we? Imagine, if you will, the Party as a self-consuming ouroboros,…
-
Monoculture
In the flickering neon glow of the Chromatic Strip, the words shimmered on the grit-streaked window of the Lotus Cafe: “Monoculture, man. It’s a feedback loop from hell. Same tired tropes, recycled like yesterday’s synth-pop. Breeds stagnation, like rot spreading through the datastream.” He nursed his lukewarm ramen, the vat-grown noodles a pale imitation of…
-
People Narrow to Their Choices
The grey room. Options sprawl, a tangled mess on the linoleum floor – careers, lovers, cities, vices. They writhe, pulsate with a sickly neon light. You, a bloodshot eye peering through a cracked peephole, must choose. But choice is a meat grinder, baby. It chews you up, spits out a pre-packaged version of yourself, cellophane-wrapped…
-
Adult Supervision
The chrome sheen of the abandoned vending machine distorted the reflection staring back at me. It wasn’t me, exactly. It was a funhouse mirror version, all sharp angles and fractured memories. The long stretches of summer, once measured in scraped knees and firefly jars, now stretched into an uncertain future. We were unsupervised alchemists, I…
-
Conceptual Vagueness but Metaphysical Indeterminacy
Man, you dig right to the meat of it, scramblin’ eggs in the skull and fryin’ up reality on the griddle of existence. This ain’t no Sunday school picnic, this here’s the cosmic dive bar where language slurps shotgun with perception and logic gets kicked in the teeth by the Absurd. Conceptual vagueness? That’s for…