Burroughs .

38: A Manifesto

My molten-steel bullet will unerringly reach my target. MY target, not that

of the trigger-puller, who naively views himself as a self-stimulating enticer
of fate. This firearm follows its own rules. My projectile defies the laws of
physics, obeying the trajectories of misfortune, the gravity well of sorrow.
He, the so-called wielder, sees, in his drunken bravado, an epic retelling of
the William Tell myth. But I see to it that the idyllic landscape of never-was
collapses into the soul-stealing black hole of never-will-be. You would like
to use my manifesto for your own purposes, to cure the world of its ills by
abolishing its tools. But I reject your anti-parochialism. I tear your agenda to
shreds. I glory in the small. For this manifesto was written for one man only,
and you are not that man. My entry wound is small, a mere centimeter in the
womans head, but the exit wound pulls the mans being through it, turning
him and his life inside out. You cannot use me. I am the user, he the used. I
the trigger puller, he the trigger. She, the target, he, the victim.