Fragmented Form

Our dear narrator is losing control, the protagonist has brought the dramatic twist ahead four chapters, this book is falling apart.

... Not to say Father's feigning this illness, that his nerves aren't good, but Mother whips into a fever so infectious that even a fit of coughing warrants the surgeon, who doesn't come as fast as he once did. So, thats why I'm here, hands double-fisted crouching against the wall of my home waiting for a man to come and proscribe a placebo and permit me some peace. It's dusk now and the room above me has suddenly hushed with the surgeon's entrance...

a patina of memory or a story told in silence

The greasy but neat linoleum, stone? Green glass covered lights make for an atmosphere of moisture despite the dryness in the air. The residents match the décor, nothing changes, and a particularly ornery sentiment pervades the hall.

Each neighbor plays their role easily, after decades of bickering, drama is theatrical and perfunctory. The elevator stands unused in the stairwell, stubbornly disused? The owners of the gelateria below hurry in and out of their flat all night long. I don’t think they’ve slept in three months. Wires, pipes, gas, telephone, all strapped to the walls that predate such conveniences, run in the crotch between wall and ceiling.

Preamble to a Self Conscious Text or A Room in a Book a Door to a Text

Inside this book is a building. The characters inside this book inside this building are actors. The story that they enact is based on a true story that happened right outside this book, in another building exactly the same as this one.

The Fictional Book

If I were to have written this book then I'm sure it would have stayed put. But as it stands this book is a fiction. Its existence wasn't at all stable, with a tiny crackle the book on the table never was.