It’s like reading a series of journal entries, or story fragments that emerged from journal entries. Yet as the end approaches, turning back to the beginning, I realize it all fits together with a haunting continuity. Phrases float awhile on the page, perhaps to resurface later glinting like minnows underwater. Burroughs seems able to watch the flow of his unconscious mind as it drifts by and PIN IT to the page just so lightly it won’t kill it not yet. Butterfly still flaps languidly on the page.

And there he is again walking around some day later across the street smiled round the corner so long ago the old grey corner blurred sadness in his eyes the corner shop I was walking behind him at the corner said something … one word … no dice flickered across his good bye his mouth a little open there looking for a name it is getting dark boy burglar spots the door open.

“Abrupt question brought me Mister.”

Desolate thin blue overcoat far to go a street sadness in his eyes looking for a name …

Click of distant heels … [New York: Penguin]

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