I Am the Factory

Possibly the Final Great American Novel if there’s still such a thing or this generation would call Disliterature maybe DisAlternative, this is soul writing at its finest, the Cure for so-called Humans controlled by the gadgets or calendars always meaning so much, this is Fountain of Youth or Philosopher’s Stone or Amalgam of Passions latent or fungal, written in absolute cock-and-bull traditions favored by the French, bold, wild, authentic, and pulp at its core, even Gothic or Alien, yet strangely dreamy fiction lyrical in some places but ultimately, it’s not the type of reading material for folks who don’t enjoy scratching their skull every now and then, it’s still done the good old fashioned way with a word processor whereby in the Present Age, modern folks would speak into a box and voila! they have made a movie or concert or treasure, it shall not be offered in ebook form because then the words only appear momentarily so it’s only for this Reason, the novel would only be available in print form just like how a book is meant to be read and touched. For folks who only accept or enjoy the One Kind of Literature, the One Kind of Art, the One Kind of Film, the One Kind of Music, please read something else. For readers who are still searching for the Extraordinary and the Possibilities of Chance, let’s not say anymore… where’s Our Yeats or Our Bard or Our Picasso… where’s our Fellini, hiding in grief, here’s the Magic Lamp, the Nightingale, the Phantom, the Oasis, a Little Bit of Wabi Sabi, a Little Bit of Dadaism… it’s all Here… in The Factory…