no matter how often i see these pictures i'll always love them

I feel so homesick right now… so I took my homesickness and gave it to Lance bc thinking about how homesick Lance must be somehow made me feel happier for a second before I started crying bc he must feel it at least 10x worse bc I know I’ll see them soon and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see his family again

Sorry if there are any typos, I can barely see through my tears

-at the garrison it was somehow different. he wasn’t with his family, but he knew he’d get to see them around the holidays and such things, plus skyping or texting or calling

-he still missed them and so he thought he knew what homesickness felt like: a tiny squeeze of your heart and a whispered voice reminding you of your family, but still fairly easy to ignore with the smallest distractions

-even then, if things got really bad for him at school he knew the worst they could do was send him back to his family, who would still accept him even if he was kicked out

-and then he was pulled into a giant space war

-which, unlike the garrison or literally any other school, has his schedule entirely unplanned

-was he going to eat breakfast tomorrow or were they going to have to fight something? was Allura going to surprise them with a crazy drill that they’d have to suffer through? was Hunk going to wake up later than usual and cause to Coran decide to make them disaster food? if he slept in, would the team let him sleep til lunch? who knows

-was he even going to live long enough to see his family? if Zarkon attacked earth, would they know? would they be able to stop him? what if his family is already dead? for all Lance knew, he could die in his sleep, but Allura dismissed him and said they couldn’t visit earth yet

-he has so much more time to think of things and at first he thought that would make him would feel better, but it doesn’t

-instead he notices that he can’t remember the way his sister parted her her hair, or where the freckle on his brother’s face was or if there even was one. he can’t quite remember the tune to the song his mother always sang, or the way his dad’s face lit up as he came home from his late shift at work only to find that everyone had stayed up late just to see him walk through the door

-his first thought is that it didn’t matter, that those were only the small things

-but then he noticed that he could barely breathe

-he was gasping and his lungs felt like they were full of cotton, his eyes stung as he tried not to cry, his head pounding out his erratic heartbeat. his hands and feet felt numb, his arms and legs like jelly. he felt nauseous too, and bile stung his throat as his mouth went completely dry. his heart felt like it was being ripped out of his chest viciously

-he tried to think of something else, anything else, but now his head was screaming everything he must be missing back at home

-does his sister still make cookies every saturday? does his brother still pick flowers on his way home from school? does his mom still make ridiculous cards for him and his siblings? does his dad still insist that they take pictures everyday?

-do they think he’s dead?

-at this point Lance just needs to get out. he’s scared and just hopes that distracting himself will still work because it’s the only thing he could think of

-so he walks right down into the dining room where the rest of the team is and starts talking

-the others talk back, and everything goes back to normal for Lance

-but the longer he’s away from his family, the more often this occurs, until it’s a habit to just talk to everyone every time he has someone to talk to

-he talked to the paladins, he talked to the alteans, he talked to Blue (and any other lion, although he couldn’t tell if they were listening or not)

-and eventually the others found him to be more and more annoying

-which sucks, because he needs them more than ever now, because now everything he does reminds him of home

-bathing, eating, sleeping, practicing, laughing, even talking

-and there are things he never did in space like fighting, training, or using crazy machines, but it just helped remind him that he’s doing them because he’s not at home

-Lance wants to tell them, but no one else talks about being homesick so he decides he has to stay strong

-they all say he’s annoying (wether or not they mean it) so he slowly gets quieter and basically loses his only coping mechanism but no one seems to notice how much worse he’s getting

-they don’t notice how quiet he is now either, until he says something and someone asks him if he knows how to shut up before they realize that that was the first time they had heard him speak in days

-they see his face fall and his eyes fill with tears, and now they notice his eye bags and the way he seems to be ready to fall over at any given second

-they don’t say anything however, because they aren’t very social and don’t know what to say (only Hunk and Coran seem to have any skills socially, but they wouldn’t be telling Lance to shut up in the first place so it’s safe to say whoever said it wouldn’t be a feelings expert)

-so they leave it alone. Lance was probably just tired lately for some reason but they won’t make him go to sleep because they figure he’ll be fine (again, pretty sure Hunk and Coran are the only ones who know what sleeping is)

-they’re too lost in thought to notice Lance leave the room gasping for air

-they’re too busy moving on to notice that Lance won’t be fine

NewtXReader -Not a priority - Part 2

masterlist

Part 1 - not a priority

I would recommend re-reading part 1 again before              continuing :)

———————————————————————————————————–

The emptiness was always there. Although his sensitive nature made him feel even deeper he managed to hide it behind his reserved persona, however the feeling never completely escaped him.

It hid everywhere, the emptiness, in the closet, the cupboards. There wasn’t any getting away from it. Most days he worked endlessly in his case to the point of extreme exhaustion and stress. He just needed to feel something. To distract himself, from not anything else but simply himself.

Just as you had quote on quote hoped’, Newt’s book was an incredible success, but success was nothing to Newt if he didn’t have someone he loved to share it with. The recognition for his work seemed worthless without your opinion, your praise was the only one that mattered.

Had you even bothered to buy a copy of the book? Did you even think about him anymore? These where thoughts that often passed Newt’s mind.

As he aimlessly wandered around the apartment the two of you used to live in, a lonely tear rolled down his freckled cheek. It hurt him to stand where he stood.

Every inch of the room holding memories which the two of you had shared together. A little pile of your belongings still lay untouched in the corner, but little did Newt know their owner was standing outside.

You stood in front of the red apartment door, breathing shakily in. ‘Please be not here, please be not here’ you prayed.

You were scared. So scared. Every muscle felt tight, sprung for action. Even your face felt tight, like smiling just wasn’t an option today. Your body screamed for you to sprint down the street, for you knew that behind the door was the auburn haired man you once loved…and still, hopelessly loved.

Letting a nervous sigh out, you willed your hand to push down on the handle. As the door opened, daylight from outside shone central on Newt.

His appearance was unusually scruffy, as though he failed to see the point of looking presentable anymore. His bow tie hung slanted and his hair unbrushed. Upon hearing your footsteps his eyes nervously flicked to the door, a mixed look of guilt and relief on his face. His mouth hung over for a second as though he was trying to form a sentence out of the millions of words he wanted to say.

“Y/N….I-I didn’t m-mean it you know that right? I was just so s-stressed, I had no idea what I was saying” he pleaded, his gaze now full fixated on the floor.

“It’s ok Newt” you replied monotonously, not even a waver of emotion in your tone. You wouldn’t let him see you crack.

Shock emerged over his features as his eyes locked with yours, as it took a couple of seconds to process what you had just said.

“It’s ok?” He repeated, unsure if he’d just imagined it. Did you really just forgive him?

“Yes”

“So you’ll come home?” He hopefully asked, a longing look in his glance.

…..

“No. I’m just here for my belongings Newt” you sadly whispered.

At this Newt’s smile instantly dropped, a heartbroken expression replacing it. His eyes became glossy once again and his posture slightly hunched.

“Newt I forgive you for what you said… Merlins sake we all have off days” you laughed blankly ,“but this doesn’t change anything. Work will always take a priority in your life and I won’t ask you to change that for me. It’s just in your nature Newt. I won’t blame you for loving your creatures. If you want to out them first…then so be it”, your voice shook in places as you forced the words out.

Tears uncontrollably fell from Newt’s eyes as he attempted to defend himself, “Being a Magozoologist is hard work-”

Love is hard work”, you interrupted slightly annoyed, “I love you…but I can’t keep going on like this. I’m not one of your creatures who only needs food sleep and shelter. I need your time. I need you Newt”.

Silence hung in the atmosphere.

“I was doing it for you Y/N”, Newt declared quietly his voice slightly breaking, “I-I know you hate having to move constantly… Always having to find a new home and rent different apartments. I just wanted to finish the book so desperately so we wouldn’t have to travel for creatures anymore…so we could settle down” he finished heartbrokenly.

“Newt-” did he really work all those long nights for you?

“…My aim was to finish the novel, I swear neglecting you was never my attention. I was going to use the money from the book too buy us a home…..

…..our home

From his pocket Newt pulled a crumpled piece of paper. Shyly he placed it in the palm of your hand, anxiously waiting for your reaction. Unfolding the corners a picture of a beautiful little house with 'a for sale’, was printed. Studying the image you noticed that it was a spacious house which walls where laced with ivy, nearly a replica of the house you had always dreamed of.

You had often talked to Newt about how you would’ve loved to buy a home with him in the future. Room for the both of you and maybe…even children. However most of the time you brought the topic up, it was when you and Newt used to cuddle before bed. Although you had mentioned it to him before you never thought he actually listened as most of the time he was half asleep.

You knew he was content with just living in his case and had never really longed for the comfort of a proper home like you. But he was prepared to give all that up. To work to the point of exhaustion to fund your dream.

You wanted to speak but all you could do is softly croak, “our home?”

Simply nodding his head, Newt’s mouth painted a soft smile. The piece of paper fell from your hands as he paced towards you. The warmth of his body met your cold skin, his hands clasping around your lower back, the other running through your hair. With each soft touch more tears fall, tears neither of you wipe away. “I’m sorry Newt I didn’t know. I guess I kind of ruined the surprise, didn’t I?”, you playfully joked into his chest".

“I’m just want you to be happy Y/N. I'll promise I’ll cut back on my hours Y/N. Just as long as your fine with living from my case for a while longer?” Still enveloped in Newt arms you tilted your head up, locking your eyes directly with his.

Newt was your home. You didn’t need a dream house and Newt didn’t need to work endless hours. As long as you had one another, you were each others only priority.

———————————————————————————————————–

If you enjoyed feel free to give feedback, like, reblog and send in requests! Nearly 1k, I love all you hufflepuffs. Enjoy this beautiful GIF of Newt.

Originally posted by xoxoeddie

Confession Room (Part 13)

(END)

Did you really want to have dinner? No, you didn’t. You’ve lost your appetite for the night and going to bed without a meal sounded more like a plan, but you didn’t want to drop Yugyeom like that. You waited outside the corner restaurant until you heard Yugyeom down the sidewalk. You stopped kicking the pebbles under your shoes to see who else came along.

Keep reading

Words: 1802

Series: K

Pairing: MIkoTotsu

Note: I HAVE THREE MINUTES TILL MIDNIGHT I MADE IT 


Firsts

The first time Mikoto saw Tatara was by a complete and utter accident. Just a change of course from his usual route to the bar after school. The hustle and bustle of the crowds had gotten on his nerves and he thought it best to take a different route, cutting down the back alleys of the city like he belonged there. He didn’t know what prompted him today to do such a thing. The crowds bothered him every day regardless but here he was.

What a kid that size was doing down a dark alley he would never know. He was much too weak to handle what he would find there. Apparently running had been his only option since he came chest to chest with Mikoto. The lanky thing crashed into him without even a warning as he turned the corner, bouncing off his chest and sprawling on the ground.

Mikoto raised his eyebrow to stare at him, eyes just as bored as they had been previously. He hardly cared what a kid like him was doing here he just needed to make sure he was more careful from now on. Bumping and crashing into guys like Mikoto was a sure fire way to get the shit beat out of you if nothing else. Especially with this one. He looked like a breeze could blow him clean over if it blew hard enough.

He saw the instant of fear cross his young features before it passed and his face calmed. He didn’t say a word, only scrambled to his feet and proceeded to hide behind the older male as if he was a shield put there specifically for his use. “Haah?” Mikoto growled, looking over his shoulder at him. The sounds of frantic footsteps approaching alerted him more than well to the situation. Annoying.

He shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh as the high schoolers came around the corner, skidding to a stop in front of him and where Tatara peeked around him. He made sure to fix his glare on them in aggravation, ready to throw some punches if they didn’t scram or give him some good reason for bothering him. They were large but he hardly cared. This explained it then. The kid had wandered into trouble he couldn’t get out of on his own.

“Scram.” He said with a smirk as they took steps back under the pressure of his gaze. “Unless you want to pick on someone your own size?” It was all the warning they were going to get and they would heed it if they were smart. Mikoto never was one to pass up a good fight.

Apparently these ones were intelligent though. With a good sense of self-preservation unlike the male behind him because they bolted a few seconds later and he heard a sigh of relief. “Wow! Good thing you showed up when you did! Good thing you’re so scary otherwise that could have ended very badly!” The young man stepped out with the dorkiest smile Mikoto had ever seen. He had nearly gotten his ass beat. What right did he have to smile that way? “I guess it’s great that you have the presence of a king too, it makes people less likely to give you trouble.”

Presence of a king? Whatever that off the wall comment meant. He was starting to doubt if this kid was dealing with a full deck. He raised a hand, knocking the top of a mousy head as he walked by. “Stay outta here if you can’t handle it. You got a death wish or somethin’, Brat?” He said with the same bored expression on his face as when he arrived.

He hardly could miss the sound of those small feet falling into step behind him.

0

0

The first time Tatara was allowed into the bar was after his self-earned hospital visit.

Mikoto found him sitting on the steps in front of the bar, cast and all, like a dog in the cold. He certainly fit the pathetic image of an abandoned puppy. Even his own conscience couldn’t let the brat stay out there. So with a sigh he let him into the bar without a word. He left the door wide open as he entered as an invitation if he wanted to follow him through it.

It wasn’t like he was able to get rid of the kid anyway.

0

0

The first time Tatara ever saw Mikoto at peace was when he was asleep. Mikoto wasn’t one to be expressive. When he was awake his expressions tended to consist of boredom and annoyance. When he was asleep though…that was something else entirely.

He had flopped on the couch with his head in Tatara’s lap without a care, only half mindful of the book that had once been in place of his head only moments before. He was too tired to ask him to move and didn’t really care if he trapped Tatara on the couch or not.

It was then that Tatara saw that expression for the first time. As if every line on his face had softened to something surreal and innocent. Succumbing to rest and dreams and relaxing after the fight he had been part of only this afternoon. It was something unexpected and Tatara smiled, brushing his hair away gently on instinct.

It would be nice if he could see King like this more often.

0

0

Mikoto wasn’t a stranger to fear. He had more than a few experiences in which he even feared for his life. Terror though. Terror in its purest form was something new to him and nothing quite matched the terror of having a burning power you couldn’t control. It burnt everything. Destroyed anything it touched. He didn’t know how to control it or how to handle it. It was deadly. A killer. Had killed the men in the alley. Allowed him to fight and defend but then could turn around and kill what he was protecting. It was a terrifying thing.

He didn’t know how to handle it.

Tatara was the first. Always the first. The first to check on him, the first to make sure he ate and slept. Even if it was only through the barrier of the bedroom door. Mikoto didn’t want him near. No one. No one could be near him right now. It was too unpredictable. Too powerful. He could never live with himself if he hurt them. If he hurt him.

As always, Tatara had no interest in listening.

He came through that door like nothing could hurt him. Like Mikoto wasn’t a raging body of fire in front of him. He stared at him with that soft expression and in the end, no matter how Mikoto told him to leave, he was the first one to trust him too. Touching him as easily as if it was any other day. As if there was nothing wrong. He didn’t treat him worse or better than he did any other day and maybe that was what he needed. That normalcy. The reminder that he hasn’t lost it all.

He curled his fingers around the fist Tatara set in his palm, staring with such wonder at him. This wasn’t the first, and he knows it won’t be the last time Tatara surprises him.

0

0

They say that there are any firsts. The first time you hold hands, the first kiss, the first time. There were so many firsts in the world. Firsts neither of them ever expected to have. They were both loners, in their own right. Attachments were dangerous. People would leave and no one ever intended to stay. Tatara learned this the hard way from an early age and yet…here in this place holding Mikoto’s hand for the first time…he can forget all of that, if only for a while.

Mikoto was his first. His only, if he had any say about it. What more could he want than this? He had decided, well before ever saying anything to him at all. He had found his place. The place of firsts. The place where his first kiss consisted of Mikoto pressing him to the hall wall because he had wanted so bad. The place where they had their first time much to the annoyance of Izumo when he learned the next morning.  

This place had many memories. The first time he heard Mikoto laugh, full on and loud. A laugh that was few and far between but no less beautiful. These were all irreplaceable things.  Things he would never want to lose. Things that had taught him how to live again. He knows it’s the same for Mikoto, even if he would never openly admit it. Knows love had changed him as well.

And as he laid there watching Mikoto sleep, head nuzzled into his shoulder, he knows this is where he’ll spend the last of his days no matter how short or long. This was home. Where he belonged. Years of being called an idiot had led to this. Being told he would die if he kept following him. Years of avoiding fights and stopping whatever destruction Mikoto could cause. It was all here and looking back he decided he wouldn’t, couldn’t, change that for the world.

He smiled as Mikoto’s arm tightened around him, pulling him closer in his sleep. No…definitely wouldn’t change this for the world.

0

0

They had so many firsts.

Memories. Moments. “The heart’s pictures” Tatara had said. They had so many in eight years. Eight years that seemed so brief now. Like he blinked and they were gone. From middle schooler to man, to a lover he didn’t expect. They had grown together in a way though, it was mostly Tatara. Mikoto would never grow if Tatara hadn’t influenced him when he had.

Looking at the ring in his palm now, he can’t help but wonder what it would have been like had Tatara not met him that day. If he had just gone on his merry way and left Mikoto to his own devices.

The red of the metal flashed or maybe that was his sudden blurred vision.

Many things would have changed. The sword may never have been a burden for this long. Maybe it would have killed him long before now. Maybe he may never have been king at all. Or maybe Tatara would have found other friends. A family to call his own that didn’t require gang fights and the like.

What he knows for sure, is that he wouldn’t have died.

He would still be alive and laughing and breathing.

And as Mikoto curled in their bed, on his pillow, he knows that this…

This is the first time he’s ever cried.

anonymous asked:

Ok so I know a lot of people ask and I'm sorry for being one more but what do you think happens to Brian and Justin after the show?

omg, don’t you dare be sorry for asking me this question! BECAUSE I LITERALLY THINK ABOUT THIS ALL THE TIME. I obsess over the infinite possibilities of what might’ve happened to Brian and Justin after the series ended pretty much nonstop tbh. Yes, I have a serious problem, and I thank you kindly for giving me an excuse to let all my feels about this stuff out (^▽^)

Keep reading

(possible tw) but please read:

less than a month ago, a girl I used to be closed to, killed herself. she struggled w depression and other things that were silently killing her. but she was beautiful. she smiled at everyone, always tried her best to be kind, but towards the end she was really struggling to hold onto life and keep her head above the water she was already chin deep in. the aftermath of this was heartbreaking. when I found out, I started sobbing in class, as did a few of my friends. we didn’t know if it was real but we were heartbroken regardless. that night I went home and I was numb to the bone - it couldn’t be real. how can someone so beautiful and kind do this? the boy that was in love w her blamed himself because they got in a fight the night she did it. he thought it was his fault. he thought he should’ve done more and it ripped him apart to shreds, weeks later, he is still so fucking broken because he loved her and now she’s gone and he’d do anything to hold her one more time. her best friends, couldn’t even come to school for a week, couldn’t even talk about it, couldn’t stand the idea of it because how could they live without her? the day after, a majority of people were crying at school. in the hallways, classrooms, etc. they announced it over the intercom and said “to those of you with heavy hearts, you already know we have lost a life. (etc etc)” and so many people started sobbing. I cried for three periods straight that day. I had to leave class, as did many other of my friends because even though some of us weren’t even close to her, some didn’t even know her, it affected us all because that’s a precious life, now gone. I walked outside that day, felt the sun, and started crying because she will never feel that again. she will never grow up and hold her kid in her arms when she’s feeling the same way that she too often felt. she’ll never be able to play w her precious dog or cats or animals she loved so much anymore. but continuing on, that day, I went and talked to the guidance counselor, as did four other people I know. one of my friends, he opened up and told me that last year, he had the same issues this girl did. that he almost did it. I told him I was glad he was alive and I’ve never seen someone look so shocked and relieved before. his laugh always fills the room. another boy, said how his dad’s friend killed himself as well. he was so shaken about how someone could do that to themselves. my close friend sat w me in the office and looked at the girls Twitter, we looked through her pictures and admired her smile and how even through a screen it was so infectious and bright and absolutely cheery. we both couldn’t say a word. my other friend came in and started sobbing. her grandparents passed away within just this week as well. I went home that night and a boy I’m close to told me that last week, he was gonna do it too, that he saw absolutely no purpose anymore. he told it all to me and I made him hold on for another night. when I saw him at school the next day I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to see someone. but again, that night I couldn’t help but sob. she was gone. completely. the sky was so overly sunny I was convinced it was her, I know it was. now I don’t know what’s out there, my faith is rather shaky but I know that she didn’t have much life left in her, that god or the stars or whatever, needed her home. her suffering on this world was far too great and although she could’ve continued on, I think the part of her that wanted to go home was far too much than the life left in her. I threw my phone at the wall that night and I couldn’t sleep because I was terrified of others feeling the same way, because I know that on multiple occasions, I too have felt the same way she did. I told everyone I loved that I loved them because jesus fuck tomorrow, or next week, could be too late so you might as well go tell them now. the day after was just the same, everyone crying and numb and spacing off because it’s so hard to grasp. because a life that once was so touchable and here, had slipped through all of our fingers, vanished within an instant right in front of all of us. and the ones closest to her, they haven’t come back from it. I can see it in the way they space off in class, looking out the window or the hallway, praying that somehow she’ll appear, that she will be in the lunch room laughing again. it’s in the way they miss her, the way their laughs seem too forced, the way they can’t make it to school some days, the way they can’t text back because jesus fuck they’ll never be able to text her again so why talk to anyone? it’s so evident and everyone was so touched by this, so damaged. even those who didn’t know her. my sisters friend, he texted her saying goodbye, saying he needed to be w his son in heaven and this was a few days after this happened and fuck you’d be wrong to say I didn’t call him and talk to him until 4am and beg him to hold on, and he did. somehow he did. because some people, they’re walking this earth without any idea of how loved and valued they are. they’re trudging along w their heads held down and tears permanently etched onto their cheeks because no one has been there to wipe them and their hands are far too shaky to do it by themselves and that is okay because sometimes you cannot do everything by yourself. some challenges are too great to face alone and what I’m trying to get across is, so many people suffer alone when they shouldn’t have to. so many people are so unaware of how valuable, precious, and absolutely lovely they are. because no one tells them. so please, if you get anything from this just get the notion that you need to let people know how loved they are, that you are not suffering alone, and that people notice. you impact everyone. every single person you’ve ever spoken a single word or a smiled to, you’ve impacted them in some way, somehow. you think you don’t matter but you do. you absolutely do, and that’s the point I wanted to make. you are fucking important. you are so loved. you are so beautiful there are metaphorical flowers blossoming out of your chest. and YOU are so so so so incredible and I hope you never lose sight of that. and if you ever need anything, please reach out, please don’t allow yourself to slip away because even when you’re in that dark hole that blinds you from the light, there is always going to be a hand willing to reach out grab you, you just have to allow yourself to ask for it, accept it, and grab it. you are worthy of help, happiness, and life.

Conrad Knickerbocker, Interview: William S. Burroughs, 35 The Paris Review (1965)
  • Interviewer: When and why did you start to write?
  • William S. Burroughs: I started to write in about 1950; I was thirty-five at the time; there didn't seem to be any strong motivation. I simply was endeavoring to put down in a more or less straightforward journalistic style something about my experiences with addiction and addicts.
  • Interviewer: Why did you start taking drugs?
  • William S. Burroughs: Well, I was just bored. I didn't seem to have much interest in becoming a successful advertising executive or whatever, or living the kind of life Harvard designs for you. After I became addicted in New York in 1944, things began to happen. I got in some trouble with the law, got married, moved to New Orleans, and then went to Mexico.
  • Interviewer: There seems to be a great deal of middle-class voyeurism in this country concerning addiction, and in the literary world, downright reverence for the addict. You apparently don't share these points of view.
  • William S. Burroughs: No, most of it is nonsense. I think drugs are interesting principally as chemical means of altering metabolism and thereby altering what we call reality, which I would define as a more or less constant scanning pattern.
  • Interviewer: What do you think of the hallucinogens and the new psychedelic drugs—LSD-25?
  • William S. Burroughs: I think they're extremely dangerous, much more dangerous than heroin. They can produce overwhelming anxiety states. I've seen people try to throw themselves out of windows; whereas the heroin addict is mainly interested in staring at his own toe. Other than deprivation of the drug, the main threat to him is an overdose. I've tried most of the hallucinogens without an anxiety reaction, fortunately. LSD-25 produced results for me similar to mescaline. Like all hallucinogens, LSD gave me an increased awareness, more a hallucinated viewpoint than any actual hallucination. You might look at a doorknob and it will appear to revolve, although you are conscious that this is the result of the drug. Also, van Goghish colors, with all those swirls, and the crackle of the universe.
  • Interviewer: Have you read Henri Michaux's book on mescaline?
  • William S. Burroughs: His idea was to go into his room and close the door and hold in the experiences. I had my most interesting experiences with mescaline when I got outdoors and walked around—colors, sunsets, gardens. It produces a terrible hangover, though, nasty stuff. It makes one ill and interferes with coordination. I've had all the interesting effects I need, and I don't want any repetition of those extremely unpleasant physical reactions.
  • Interviewer: The visions of drugs and the visions of art don't mix?
  • William S. Burroughs: Never. The hallucinogens produce visionary states, sort of, but morphine and its derivatives decrease awareness of inner processes, thoughts, and feelings. They are painkillers, pure and simple. They are absolutely contraindicated for creative work, and I include in the lot alcohol, morphine, barbiturates, tranquilizers—the whole spectrum of sedative drugs. As for visions and heroin, I had a hallucinatory period at the very beginning of addiction, for instance, a sense of moving at high speed through space. But as soon as addiction was established, I had no visions—vision—at all and very few dreams.
  • Interviewer: Why did you stop taking drugs?
  • William S. Burroughs: I was living in Tangier in 1957, and I had spent a month in a tiny room in the Casbah staring at the toe of my foot. The room had filled up with empty Eukodol cartons; I suddenly realized I was not doing anything. I was dying. I was just apt to be finished. So I flew to London and turned myself over to Dr. John Yerbury Dent for treatment. I'd heard of his success with the apomorphine treatment. Apomorphine is simply morphine boiled in hydrochloric acid; it's nonaddictive. What the apomorphine did was to regulate my metabolism. It's a metabolic regulator. It cured me physiologically. I'd already taken the cure once at Lexington, and although I was off drugs when I got out, there was a physiological residue. Apomorphine eliminated that. I've been trying to get people in this country interested in it, but without much luck. The vast majority—social workers, doctors—have the cop's mentality toward addiction. A probation officer in California wrote me recently to inquire about the apomorphine treatment. I'll answer him at length. I always answer letters like that.
  • Interviewer: Have you had any relapses?
  • William S. Burroughs: Yes, a couple. Short. Both were straightened out with apomorphine, and now heroin is no temptation for me. I'm just not interested. I've seen a lot of it around. I know people who are addicts. I don't have to use any willpower. Dr. Dent always said there is no such thing as willpower. You've got to reach a state of mind in which you don't want it or need it.
  • Interviewer: You regard addiction as an illness but also a central human fact, a drama?
  • William S. Burroughs: Both, absolutely. It's as simple as the way in which anyone happens to become an alcoholic. They start drinking, that's all. They like it, and they drink, and then they become alcoholic. I was exposed to heroin in New York—that is, I was going around with people who were using it; I took it; the effects were pleasant. I went on using it and became addicted. Remember that if it can be readily obtained, you will have any number of addicts. The idea that addiction is somehow a psychological illness is, I think, totally ridiculous. It's as psychological as malaria. It's a matter of exposure. People, generally speaking, will take any intoxicant or any drug that gives them a pleasant effect if it is available to them. In Iran, for instance, opium was sold in shops until quite recently, and they had three million addicts in a population of twenty million. There are also all forms of spiritual addiction. Anything that can be done chemically can be done in other ways, that is, if we have sufficient knowledge of the processes involved. Many policemen and narcotics agents are precisely addicted to power, to exercising a certain nasty kind of power over people who are helpless. The nasty sort of power-- white junk, I call it—rightness; they're right, right, right—and if they lost that power, they would suffer excruciating withdrawal symptoms. The picture we get of the whole Russian bureaucracy, people who are exclusively preoccupied with power and advantage, this must be an addiction. Suppose they lose it? Well, it's been their whole life.
  • Interviewer: Can you amplify your idea of junk as image?
  • William S. Burroughs: It's only a theory and, I feel, an inadequate one. I don't think anyone really understands what a narcotic is or how it works, how it kills pain. My idea is sort of a stab in the dark. As I see it, what has been damaged in pain is, of course, the image, and morphine must in some sense replace this. We know it blankets the cells and that addicts are practically immune to certain viruses, to influenza and respiratory complaints. This is simple because the influenza virus has to make a hole in the cell receptors. When those are covered, as they are in morphine addiction, the virus can't get in. As soon as morphine is withdrawn, addicts will immediately come down with colds and often with influenza.
  • Interviewer: Certain schizophrenics also resist respiratory disease.
  • William S. Burroughs: A long time ago I suggested there were similarities in terminal addiction and terminal schizophrenia. That was why I made the suggestion that they addict these people to heroin, then withdraw it and see if they could be motivated; in other words, find out whether they'd walk across the room and pick up a syringe. Needless to say, I didn't get very far, but I think it would be interesting.
  • Interviewer: Narcotics, then, disturb normal perception—
  • William S. Burroughs: And set up instead a random craving for images. If drugs weren't forbidden in America, they would be the perfect middle-class vice. Addicts would do their work and come home to consume the huge dose of images awaiting them in the mass media. Junkies love to look at television. Billie Holiday said she knew she was going off drugs when she didn't like to watch TV. Or they'll sit and read a newspaper or magazine, and by God, read it all. I knew this old junkie in New York, and he'd go out and get a lot of newspapers and magazines and some candy bars and several packages of cigarettes and then he'd sit in his room and he'd read those newspapers and magazines right straight through. Indiscriminately. Every word.
  • Interviewer: Marshall McLuhan said that you believed heroin was needed to turn the human body into an environment that includes the universe. But from what you've told me, you're not at all interested in turning the body into an environment.
  • William S. Burroughs: No, junk narrows consciousness. The only benefit to me as a writer (aside from putting me into contact with the whole carny world) came to me after I went off it. What I want to do is to learn to see more of what's out there, to look outside, to achieve as far as possible a complete awareness of surroundings. Beckett wants to go inward. First he was in a bottle and now he is in the mud. I am aimed in the other direction—outward.
  • Interviewer: Mary McCarthy has commented on the carnival origins of your characters in Naked Lunch. What are their other derivations?
  • William S. Burroughs: The carny world was the one I exactly intended to create—a kind of midwestern, small-town, cracker-barrel, pratfall type of folklore, very much my own background. That world was an integral part of America and existed nowhere else, at least not in the same form. My family was southern on my mother's side. My grandfather was a circuit-riding Methodist minister with thirteen children. Most of them went up to New York and became quite successful in advertising and public relations. One of them, an uncle, was a master image maker, Ivy Lee, Rockefeller's publicity manager.
  • Interviewer: Earlier you mentioned that if junk had done nothing else, it at least put you in contact with the carny world.
  • William S. Burroughs: Yes, the underworld, the old-time thieves, pickpockets, and people like that. They're a dying race; very few of those old-timers left. Yeah, well, they were show business.
  • Interviewer: What's the difference between the modern junkie versus the 1944 junkie?
  • William S. Burroughs: For one thing, all these young addicts; that was quite unknown in 1944. Most of the ones I knew were middle-aged men or old. I knew some of the old-time pickpockets and sneak thieves and shortchange artists. They had something called The Bill, a shortchange deal. I've never been able to figure out how it works. One man I knew beat all the cashiers in Grand Central with this thing. It starts with a twenty-dollar bill. You give them a twenty-dollar bill and then when you get the change you say, “Well, wait a minute, I must have been dreaming, I've got the change after all.” First thing you know, the cashier's short ten dollars. One day this shortchange artist went to Grand Central, even though he knew it was burned down, but he wanted to change twenty dollars. Well, a guy got on the buzzer and they arrested him. When they got up in court and tried to explain what had happened, none of them could do it. I keep stories like this in my files.
  • Interviewer: Do you think of the artist at all as being a con man?
  • William S. Burroughs: In a sense. You see, a real con man is a creator. He creates a set. No, a con man is more a movie director than a writer. The Yellow Kid created a whole set, a whole cast of characters, a whole brokerage house, a whole bank. It was just like a movie studio.
  • Interviewer: What about addicts?
  • William S. Burroughs: Well, there will be a lot of morphine addiction. Remember that there were a great many addicts at that time. Jesse James was an addict. He started using morphine for a wound in his lung, and I don't know whether he was permanently addicted, but he tried to kill himself. He took sixteen grains of morphine and it didn't kill him, which indicates a terrific tolerance. So he must have been fairly heavily addicted. A dumb, brutal hick; that's what he was, like Dillinger. And there were so many genteel old ladies who didn't feel right unless they had their Dr. Jones mixture every day.
  • Interviewer: What other character types interest you?
  • William S. Burroughs: Not the people in advertising and television, nor the American postman or middle-class housewife; not the young man setting forth. The whole world of high finance interests me, the men such as Rockefeller who were specialized types of organisms that could exist in a certain environment. He was really a moneymaking machine, but I doubt that he could have made a dime today because he required the old laissez-faire capitalism. He was a specialized monopolistic organism. My uncle Ivy created images for him. I fail to understand why people like J. Paul Getty have to come on with such a stuffy, uninteresting image. He decides to write his life history. I've never read anything so dull, so absolutely devoid of any spark. Well, after all, he was quite a playboy in his youth. There must have been something going on. None of it's in the book. Here he is, the only man of enormous wealth who operates alone, but there's nobody to present the image. Well, yes, I wouldn't mind doing that sort of job myself. I'd like to take somebody like Getty and try to find an image for him that would be of some interest. If Getty wants to build an image, why doesn't he hire a first-class writer to write his story? For that matter, advertising has a long way to go. I'd like to see a story by Norman Mailer or John O'Hara which just makes some mention of a product, say, Southern Comfort. I can see the O'Hara story. It would be about someone who went into a bar and asked for Southern Comfort; they didn't have it, and he gets into a long, stupid argument with the bartender. It shouldn't be obtrusive; the story must be interesting in itself so that people read this just as they read any story in Playboy, and Southern Comfort would be guaranteed that people will look at that advertisement for a certain number of minutes. You see what I mean? They'll read the story. Now, there are many other ideas; you could have serialized comic strips, serial stories. Well, all we have to do is have James Bond smoking a certain brand of cigarettes.
  • Interviewer: In some respects, Nova Express seems to be a prescription for social ailments. Do you see the need, for instance, of biologic courts in the future?
  • William S. Burroughs: Certainly. Science eventually will be forced to establish courts of biologic mediation, because life-forms are going to become more incompatible with the conditions of existence as man penetrates further into space. Mankind will have to undergo biologic alterations ultimately, if we are to survive at all. This will require biologic law to decide what changes to make. We will simply have to use our intelligence to plan mutations, rather than letting them occur at random. Because many such mutations—look at the saber-toothed tiger—are bound to be very poor engineering designs. The future, decidedly, yes. I think there are innumerable possibilities, literally innumerable. The hope lies in the development of nonbody experience and eventually getting away from the body itself, away from three-dimensional coordinates and concomitant animal reactions of fear and flight, which lead inevitably to tribal feuds and dissension.
  • Interviewer: You see hope for the human race, but at the same time you are alarmed as the instruments of control become more sophisticated.
  • William S. Burroughs: Well, whereas they become more sophisticated they also become more vulnerable. Time, Life, Fortune applies a more complex, effective control system than the Mayan calendar, but it also is much more vulnerable because it is so vast and mechanized. Not even Henry Luce understands what's going on in the system now. Well, a machine can be redirected. One technical sergeant can fuck up the whole works. Nobody can control the whole operation. It's too complex. The captain comes in and says, “All right, boys, we're moving up.” Now, who knows what buttons to push? Who knows how to get the cases of Spam up to where they're going, and how to fill out the forms? The sergeant does. The captain doesn't know. As long as there're sergeants around, the machine can be dismantled, and we may get out of all this alive yet.
  • Interviewer: Sex seems equated with death frequently in your work.
  • William S. Burroughs: That is an extension of the idea of sex as a biologic weapon. I feel that sex, like practically every other human manifestation, has been degraded for control purposes, or really for antihuman purposes. This whole Puritanism. How are we ever going to find out anything about sex scientifically, when a priori the subject cannot even be investigated? It can't even be thought about or written about. That was one of the interesting things about Reich. He was one of the few people who ever tried to investigate sex—sexual phenomena, from a scientific point of view. There's this prurience and this fear of sex. We know nothing about sex. What is it? Why is it pleasurable? What is pleasure? Relief from tension? Well, possibly.
  • Interviewer: Mary McCarthy has characterized you as a soured utopian. Is that accurate?
  • William S. Burroughs: I do definitely mean what I say to be taken literally, yes, to make people aware of the true criminality of our times, to wise up the marks. All of my work is directed against those who are bent, through stupidity or design, on blowing up the planet or rendering it uninhabitable. Like the advertising people we talked about, I'm concerned with the precise manipulation of word and image to create an action, not to go out and buy a Coca-Cola, but to create an alteration in the reader's consciousness. You know, they ask me if I were on a desert island and knew nobody would ever see what I wrote, would I go on writing. My answer is most emphatically yes. I would go on writing for company. Because I'm creating an imaginary—it's always imaginary—world in which I would like to live.