one time i had a dream that i wrote and published books under a pseudonym. i got to hang out with some artists and writers who were very profound. we talked at sophisticated parties.
my novels explored, through a vigorous and experimental use of language, the role of intellectual experiences in the wake of the collapse of modernified urban involutions, and a commencement of the rejuvenation of the self in the metropolitan dissolution. in this way, i commented on the resilience of the perennial -- without denying the consequences of altered expectations and new technology -- in these books. further, they explored why the role of women is necessary, and how inherited power-structures are influential in generational perceptions. the books were mainly about people getting married.
not all of them were about weddings and courtships, naturally. a few were about people traveling to locales involving poor people, beaches, and insular politics.
my pet-fish bubbles said that these were the among the worst books ever written. he said he didn't understand why people read this kind of trash. he said i should be writing about autarky, metabolic rift, and the nature-culture divide. also, he said my novels should be more meta-fictional and de-modernised.
i told bubbles he knew nothing about art or fiction, and that's why he wasn't invited to our exclusive and highly stimulating parties.
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