The Content, the Plot. The Potent, the Clot. The Poet, the Trout. Burp. This book has neither subject nor object, nor author nor reader. It is not a book about life but is a life itself, many lives, as they slip into and out of eachother. Falling to their deaths. And back again. From Reality to Dream, and back again. So many times that you forget which side of the mirror you're on. It's the cracked looking glass of a servant, where the ego dissolves into the group phantasm of the unavowable community, dreaming of mythological revolution, that will finally bring about the Time when Hearts fall In Love.
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