It is refreshing to see a gay junkie with hep c misspell things. I mean that in every way. It was a broken open little Book (from the delightful, defunct little Hanuman editions) that I read through during two separate shits. It reads like Burroughs writing a gossip rag. But instead of that clinical Burroughs hardness and dysphoria, it is soft and incredibly tender in a way that is both destroyed, unmediated, and grateful in a very realistic way.
Very weird book. Reads more like a Burroughs cut-up work. I found 75% of it incomprehensible but because it's a short book i might try reading it again to see if i can fathom any meaning out of it.