The novel was dead. The author was dead. The author was not pairing his fingernails like an English Dandy.
Was God dead? Was narrative dead? Anyone could do exactly as they wanted with almost no consequence?
Was he right?
Is this where French avant-garde Marxist thinking was leading?
Trisha let out a sigh of relief. She sat down and wondered what she was to do? Was there any plot to her life or was this eternal recurrence.
"God is dead. Of his grief for man hath he died." Nietzsche.
What was she going to do? She went to Burberry and stole a coat. The assistant assumed that she was a Burberry model trying on some clothes for a shoot.
She nabbed a Prada purse in New York, New York. They assumed that she was the daughter of Prada.
She was searching for Doctor Livingston who could give her eternal life.