There is no hatred in my love for you. Only a sadness I feel all the more strongly for my inability to explain or describe it.

The reader becomes God, for all textual purposes. I see your eyes glazing over, so I'll hush.

The problem is that once the rules of art are debunked, and once the unpleasant realities the irony diagnoses are revealed and diagnosed, 'then' what do we do?

My chest bumps like a dryer with shoes in it.

[I]f the writer does his job right, what he basically does is remind the reader of how smart the reader is.

It can become an exercise in trying to get the reader to like and admire you instead of an exercise in creative art.

The point of books is to combat loneliness.