It's a fact that culture is contingent on it's milieu; the here and now of the there and then. The BBC had a lovely photo up the other day of William S. Burroughs sitting beside the wire baskets he used to jumble up his writing while pioneering that whole cut-up thing of his and it got me thinking; what if Burroughs had access to modern computers back in the Beat days? Coding and compiling programs to spit out novels based on some arcane algorithm.


William S Burroughs got ahold of Twitter. Microblogging heroin soaked fever dreams of reptilian rent boys spurting corrosive semen from every pore while a row of disembodied, reanimated womens' heads watch from above on silk pillows neatly arranged on a window sill as they spit and hiss in jealousy.

William S Burroughs junk-sick and disoriented typing useless entreaties to P Diddy, begging to know the arcane knowledge inherent in being "locked on."

Warren Ellis bludgeoning someone to death with his blackberry because he isn't the maddest tweeter on the block anymore.


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