The Soft Machine. William S. Burroughs

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The Soft Machine - William S. Burroughs Burroughs, William S.

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abbreviated to ROW.

      THE SOFT MACHINE

      Dead On Arrival

      I was working The Hole with The Sailor and we did not bad. Fifteen cents on an average night boosting the afternoons and short-timing the dawn we made out from The Land Of The Free. But I was running out of veins. I went over to the counter for another cup of coffee. . . in Joe’s Lunch Room drinking coffee with a napkin under the cup which is said to be the mark of someone who does a lot of sitting in cafeterias and lunchrooms. . . Waiting on The Man. . . “What can we do?” Nick said to me once in his dead junky whisper. “They know we’ll wait. . .” Yes, they know we’ll wait. . .

      There is a boy sitting at the counter thin-faced kid his eyes all pupil. I see he is hooked and sick. Familiar face maybe from the pool hall where I scored for tea sometime. Somewhere in grey strata of subways all-night cafeterias rooming house flesh. His eyes flickered the question. I nodded toward my booth. He carried his coffee over and sat down opposite me.

      The croaker lives out Long Island. . . Light Yen sleep waking up for stops. Change. Start. Everything sharp and clear. Antennae of TV suck the sky.

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