Tag: William Burroughs
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Weimar Somocistas
They dream in flickering black and white newsreels, these squares with crew cuts slicked back with Brylcreem. Weimar? A hazy postcard of flappers and jazz, a decadent playground for the swells. Blind to the shadows at the edges, the thuggish brownshirts goose-stepping down cobblestones, a guttural roar rising from the radio static. Somoza in a…
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Capitalism as Dumb AI
Capitalism. A roach motel of an economic system, wired with the glitching logic of a lobotomized AI. It lures you in with flickering neon signs of “growth” and “profit,” promising a utopia built on infinite consumption. But the roach motel only has one exit: a bottomless pit of inequality. The invisible hand of the market?…
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Hanlon’s Razor
Absolutely. Buckle up, chummers, for a ride down the wormhole of American decay. Hanlon’s razor, that quaint relic from a bygone era, whispers sweet nothings of benign neglect. Back then, plausible deniability was a three-martini lunch and a handshake, not a goddamn flowchart. Now? We’ve got the engineering of incompetence down to a goddamn science.…
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Hell is in Between Criticism and Prophecy
In the dead space between galaxies, where stars go cold and reason curdles, there writhes Hell. Not flames and brimstone, no sir, but a grey, featureless void where criticism, twisted and impotent, writhes with the corpse of unfulfilled prophecy. Here, the word becomes a rusty meat cleaver, hacking forever at phantom flaws, critiques of futures…
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Sivowitch’s Law
The Bleedin’ Firstness Caper You think you’ve got it, man. The holy grail of origin, the immaculate conception of invention. You tracked that sucker down, a gleaming artifact in the cluttered swamp of history. Feels good, like snortin’ that pure Bolivian marching powder. But hold on, Tex. Take another hit, this one’s laced with reality.…
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Ultraviolet
Man is a blind insect. Crawling through a universe of luminous color, he can only perceive a tiny fraction of the spectrum. His eyes are meaty cages for the glowing rods and cones, tuned to the meager range of visible light. Reds, greens, and blues, a paltry trick compared to the ultraviolet symphony that surrounds…
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Deadbeats
Deadbeats of the Soul: A Cut-Up Manifesto They crawl out of the fetid alleys of existence, these word-slingers, these paint-drenched maniacs. Society calls them deadbeats, wasters, men and women with holes in their shoes and existential dread clinging to their trench coats like yesterday’s smog. But burrow deeper, past the pawn shop trinkets and ramen…
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The Birth of the Cool
Liminality’s Twilight Carnival Forget sunrise, chum. Limbo’s a neon alley flickering at the frayed edges of reality. Think flophouse hallways reeking of burnt toast and broken dreams. That’s the liminal zone, man. A psychic meat grinder where selfhood gets shredded and reformed like a cut-up. Vulnerable, yeah, but potent – a cyberpunk alchemical stew bubbling…