According to Burroughs, the sexes should have never intersected.
Some psychic domination, exercised by females.
Seeing maybe some parallel, to certain substances, where the mind goes One-Track, taken over, rendered obsolete with regard to any other function.
Just fucked, right, just fucked.
A flatline of impotent obsession, rehearsals and reversals.
Gone out with any/all production, dissolution of motivation, just simply simply churning, stewing, running the same sideways cycles of Wonder, Wonder, Wonder.
So on occasion, yes, some sorta-maybe-okay thing comes out, but at the cost of all the other sucked-down bottomed-out moments, a degraded desert landscape of the shell-shocked interior.
Only solution, to our mind, being total eradication of any such feeling.
The eradication, followed by the isolation.
Just locked up, put away, tuned back to product, product.
Like a good little capitalist.
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