i never cleaned or dusted the room. empty ampoule boxes and garbage piled up to the ceiling. light and water long since turned off for nonpayment. i did absolutely nothing. i could look at the end of my shoe for eight hours. i was only roused to action when the hourglass of junk ran out. the words of william seward burroughs, one of my heroes. he came to tangier in 1953, shortly after shooting his wife to death in a drunken accident in mexico city. he was a heroin addict, a homosexual and an inspiration to those protohipsters who became to be known as the beats. but burrouchs was not a beat. he was a somewhat stuffy, well-dressed st. louis son of a good family gone wrong.