The Valley, 1989
The Valley (Page 6)
by William Burroughs
and on this the Corners excel. They sing through their rotting gums, a strange viscous sound, exquisitely sad, a lament of living protoplasm, and they strum delicate instruments of feathers and fish skin and leaves and insect wings… the instruments disintegrate under their hands, the delicate flutes split and flutter to the ground…
At one time we were able to grow chilies but a blight killed the plants. I think we would kill ourselves except for the grifa. We have planted where it will reach all of the sun each day, in the middle of the Valley by the stream. The plants are of a very dark green, almost black, and only one whiff on the pipe is enough for hours. Like everything the grifa is carefully rationed. How is this enforced? There is no need to enforce anything here, where we all know