Love this completely. It’s a keen mixer, who changes light to a gray wasteland, into a dust storm, where the warm winds of the desert whip up out of nothing only at last to turn the gaslight on, and there is an angry Rottweiler of unknown origin, where someone you barely knew was just standing and screaming bloody murder. Meanwhile, outside the birds chirp and the sun is shining. It is the meaning of fiction, where some writer creates a dystopian reality in an effort to control the world he can’t, broken, but mostly undisciplined, and crazier and crazier by the minute as reality envelops them and calls their bluff. There is no way out, but to run, and never look back. The lie is a pathological predisposition that reengages every time the doll’s wooden eyes open, or where enough of the realists have gotten together and supported each other and evicted him for a wrong so blatant as to call someone a racial slur. It’s soup, where there aren’t enough vowels, just a constancy of black and white and red all over.