In the City Market is the Meet Cafe. Followers of obsolete, unthinkable¨
trades doodling in Estruscan, addicts of drugs not yet synthesized,¨
pushers of souped up Harmaline, junk reduced to pure habit offering¨
precarious vegetable serenity, liquids to induce Latah, Tithonian¨
longevity serums, black marketeers of World War III, excisors of¨
telepathic sensitivity, osteopaths of the spirit, investigators of¨
infractions denounced by bland paranoid chess players, servers of¨
fragmentary warrants taken down in hebephrenic shorthand charging¨
unspeakable mutilations of the spirit, bureaucrats of spectral¨
departments, officials of unconstituted police states, a Lesbian dwarf¨
who has perfected operation Bang-utot, the lung erection that¨
strangles a sleeping enemy, sellers of orgone tanks and relaxing¨
machines, brokers of exquisite dreams and memories tested on the¨
sensitized cells of junk sickness and bartered for raw materials of the¨
will, doctors skilled in the treatment of diseases dormant in the black¨
dust of ruined cities, gathering virulence in the white blood of eyeless¨
worms feeling slowly to the surface and the human host, maladies of the¨
ocean floor and the stratosphere, maladies of the laboratory and atomic¨
war... A place where the unknown past and the emergent future meet in a¨
vibrating soundless hum... Larval entities waiting for a Live One...

W.S. Burroughs, NAKED LUNCH ("The Market"), Grove Weidenfield p.108