A poet walks into a Parisian café carrying scissors and a stack of yesterday’s newspapers. He slices through headlines, obituaries, war reports, and weather blurbs, scattering words like tarot cards across the table. He isn’t interested in what was written but in what could be—what hidden messages lie in the shuffled fragments of culture’s cast-offs.

This poet is Brion Gysin, and the year is 1959.
His accomplice: William S. Burroughs—beat writer, literary outlaw, and master of subversion.

Together, they birthed the: