I Do Not Feel I

I'm Really Shocked When Critics Get Morally Outraged At My Fiction Because They Think I'm Condoning What's Going On. I Never Come In As The Author And Say, "hey, Okay. I'm Interrupting The Narrator Here. I'm Bret Easton Ellis, And I'm The Author."

Hello, Halberstam," Owen Says, Walking By. Hello, Owen," I Say, Admiring The Way He's Styled And Slicked Back His Hair, With A Part So Even And Sharp It... Devastates Me And I Make A Mental Note To Ask Him Where He Purchases His Hair-care Products, Which Kind Of Mousse He Uses, My Final Guesses After Mulling Over The Possibilities Being Ten-x.

Disintegration---i'm Taking It In Stride.

I Am Gripped By An Existential Panic.

Where There Was Nature And Earth, Life And Water, I Saw A Desert Landscape That Was Unending, Resembling Some Sort Of Crater, So Devoid Of Reason And Light And Spirit That The Mind Could Not Grasp It On Any Sort Of Conscious Level And If You Came Close The Mind Would Reel Backward, Unable To Take It In. It Was A Vision So Clear And Real And Vital To Me That In Its Purity It Was Almost Abstract. This Was What I Could Understand, This Was How I Lived My Life, What I Constructed My Movement Around, How I Dealt With The Tangible.