Should I drink up to fifty cups of coffee a day? I can’t live on irony and an MFA. Not to fetishize the bourgeois past, but I don’t think my phone’s battery will last. Embossed with experimental chronotopes, my novel was written on discarded envelopes. A luxury of intransigence in drawing rooms, feeds and screens filled with perfumes. A dozen calico chairs, a non-electronic missive; have society’s morals grown more permissive? The Baron’s hedge-fund acquired a spleen. Adorable wretch! You know what I mean. My avatar left me for a leaky old boat. Their affair was released in a footnote. These anti-heroic couplets contain at least one mistake, postmodern doggerel is such a headache! There’s no such thing as meta-commercialism, aesthetic distance is just part of the prism. One’s inner life farcifies literary revolution as Napoleon’s followers practice elocution. An opus that can be consumed while riding a bus. A subject becomes that which she will not discuss. Should I read Balzac? Should I even try? It’s cultural capital, but what does it buy?