"What do you think about that?"
"About what?"
"About starting a chapter like that?"
"I feel that it's postmodern."
"Good."
Frank was lying on his back reading the back covers of a couple novellas sprawled around his bed.
"A fascinating read. This is a seminal work. The New York Times," Franks reads. "How do they go about getting these vacuous blurbs anyway? Like these opinions that are plastered on the back of each book don't hold any insight into the novel itself. Utterly vapid shite. In reality, we are just looking for the acclaimed sources that reviewed the book to ensure the book's quality... the Times, Washington Post, and whoever has a fucking credible literary opinion, oh, Robert Ebert. Would we actually notice if they put, 'This novel is reminiscent of falling off a bridge into a pit of hungry barracudas and surviving? The New Yorker.'"
"Are you high?"
"Possibly, yeah."
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