Day Fifty-Two: Quench
Burroughs—now there’s a story, and one I won’t tell here, but there’s this: He had an apple, a gun, and a wife. It was a trick they’d done a hundred times. One small error, that’s all. One. Small. Error. He fled to Mexico immediately after, that very night I believe, taking only a typewriter and a memory that must have torn him to ribbons till the day he died. Still, the keys beat down, words flying off his fingertips like moths to a flame, quenching his thirst with ever more thirst.