-Keep it. It’s not money I need,but a friend.
-Yes, a friend.
-A friend who can tell me
how to run away. I’ve always wanted to.
-Run away. A friend to share my pleasures and pains.
-I’ll share your pains and pleasures. But I hope it’s more pleasure than pain.
No matter how depressed he was, no matter how grim London seemed, no matter how friendless and alone he felt, there was one thing that Burroughs always managed to do and that was write. To sit down at his desk and peck away at his typewriter in a drugged or trancelike state was more than a professional activity – it was a lifeline, an absolute necessity, a way of connecting with world, a way of fleeing from the world into fantasy, and a way of reconstructing the world according to Burroughs.
I was out in the open country, having left the following note on my mother’s night table:
“I beseech you not to send the police after me for I am carrying a gun , and the first bullet will be for the policeman , the second for myself. “