this book really puts you in the headspace of being on the very verge of figuring something out. this book goes the furthest into the abstract, with a frankenstein form made up of poems, transcripts, notes, a book within a book, characters transmuting and mirroring and echoing on and on. i feel like i need to reread it, maybe more than once, with a lot of focus to really parse through each layer of fiction and map out connections etc. but maybe that's not the point. his literal closing statement is who fucking cares about what happens in this town or the people in it. i think this book exists as a mirrored and total collapse of closer, any and all embellishment, stylization, in ballard’s use of the term, fallen not just away but apart, overly self aware and still unable to stop or slow the collapsing. lots to think about i don't know.