“Who are these pigs — as a validated addict I demand to be left alone — drink the eucalyptus oil — with dials and knobs still high as a freak male locked into the vibrations of the jet engines — get a bag of acid and a credit card for airlines — evaluate the pitch, roll and yaw — no sense of movement in this plane — just humming — the phones — acid-style high tingling and strange, intense vibrations. Get that dead animal off the seat — put it under — where is the drink? These pigs are taking us for a ride — put it on the card. Strange feedback echoes on the headset, Gabriel Heatter screaming in the background — telephone conversations — fantastic people talking. This is yesterday’s program — new songs today. A dingbat across the aisle and Kitty Wells on the headphones. This channel is hag-ridden with echoes — telephone conversations. See no wings on this plane — good God the lock on my whiskey bag is frozen — a lifting body, tends to destroy itself, very wormy. I seem to be getting higher.” Hunter S. Thompson rambling on an airplane while feeling the effects of mescaline for the very first time. (from Screwjack, p. 37-38)

(Source: i-am-lono)

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