...

i love it when the title doesn't make sense. when the work is scoured for reason, for explanation, as if the author owes anyone an explanation. that when a reader can't find it, s/he is left in the dark, ignorant to some piece of meaning created only for the writer.




even better when the author has yet to interpret what has been created. rather, it's all stream of conciousness, carefully crafted, full of malapropism and freudian slips.