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.
But if no one is going
to read me in one hundred years,
why the hell should I write at all?
Satan hates cold showers.