Aleppo? . . . Slunk traffickers from Buenos Aires? Il­legal diamond buyers from Johannesburg? . . . Slave traders from Somaliland? Collaborators at the very least…Continual dreams of junk: I am looking for a poppy field. . . . Moonshiners in black Stetsons direct me to a Near East cafe. . . . One of the waiters is a connection for Yugoslav opium….Buy a packet of heroin from a Malay Lesbian in white belted trenchcoat. . . . I cop the paper in Tibetan section of a museum. She keeps trying to steal it back. … I am looking for a place to fix. …The critical point of withdrawal is not the early phase of acute sickness, but the final step free from the medium of junk. . . .There is a nightmare interlude of cellular panic, life suspended between two wavs of being. . . . At this point the longing for junk concen­trates in a last, all-out yen, and seems to gain a dream power: circumstances put junk in your way. . . . You meet an old-time Schmecker, a larcenous hospital at­tendant, a writing croaker. …l:| A guard in a uniform of human skin, black buck I jacket with carious yellow teeth buttons, an elastic pullover shirt in burnished Indian copper, adolescent- ; nordic-sun-tan slacks, sandals from calloused foot soles of young Malayan farmer, an ash-brown scarf knotted ‘ and tucked in the shirt. (Ash-brown is a color like 5 grey under brown skin. You sometimes find it in mixed I Negro and white stock, the mixture did not come off I and the colors separated out like oil on water. . . .) ft The Guard is a sharp dresser, since he has nothing