Dead Inside

The main character being a stand-in for nihilism is about as subtle as a cleaver to the balls while the primary love interest (a debatable perspective considering our protagonist's necrophiliac inclinations) offers a strange, shallow attempt at Poe-esque, darkly romantic tragedy. The primary plot twist was every bit so well-hidden as Joe Biden's cognitive decline and the violative scenes attendant throughout the tale are so purposefully deranged that they can't help but Wile E. Coyote themselves off a metaphorical cliff, tryhard edgelording themselves into something approaching fever dream symbolism and [un?]intentional black comedy. Perhaps, deep down, this is a work of sheer, uncompromising, deconstructive genius by Mr. Morrison and I lack scholarship enough to grasp its profundities– problem being that, unlike Mr. Owl's admirable curiosity at calculating licks towards that elusive Tootsie Pop center, I simply do not wish to “find out” and indeed the “world may never know.”