Avant Garde writer with no story, no plot. (Czyzm)

(No, just the real inner world actuality) “In inner plot prose…the critic says, the experiment doesn’t quite succeed. Without characters or something resembling a story, there is nothing for the voice-intriguing as it gets to stick to; it becomes disembodied. Thus Passes Through, is not so much a novel as a 206 page poem. ..the question is, how long can you listen to a mind…I can’t help but feel despite its well wrought prose, Passes Through would have achieved much more if it had engaged the outside world once in awhile…”

That man in a suit is worlds away from. Man, suit, newspaper, laptop, testosterone, social construct, Tell us your dreams sports illustrated swimsuit edition, save the world quantum leap, fingers to forehead a stressful day in the world you created and help maintain. Two splenda in your coffee, got them yourself instead of making the tattooed barista do it for you. Progress, progress. I guess. Take off your glasses, not your eyes. Put your eyes up on your dominance. It establishes the relationship between things. Each of us our own world, our own world. We can take a trip to you, travel, unpack, visit, for awhile, but can never live within you. This is the end, this is what destroyed you most, why you’re so desperate to get inside, but you can never see. As if you or I or anyone needed another reminder of our mortality.