The absence of his subjectivity

Arthut surveyed the absence of his subjectivity. It was rather dull, and full of part-objects. "I do not seem to be able to distinguish myself from my mother," he said, "Oh bother." That unfortunate lady was deceased, consequently Arthur could not even say whether he himself was alive or dead.

"For in that ƒleep of death what creams may dome, when we have muffled of this chortle soil!"

It was raining cats, hats, bats and even flats. The signifier sank like Oedipus into the sea. "Oh shit," said the author, who did not beat about the bush, in case a lot of birds, or words, or worse, should fall out.

"I think that's rude," said Arthur, and slowly smiled.

"I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am," he said, quoting Sylvia Plath two and a half times.

"So you keep saying," said the author, defensively. He sang, tastelessly, "Nietzsche NAZI is dead and Paul de Man NAZI is really quite deconstructed!" A moment later, he was struggling under the weight of the phrase "obese elephant", which Arthur had thrown at him accurately, if a little arbitrarily.

{Palimpsestically} SOUFFLE DISH