The narrator decides to take linguistic foibles and turn them into metaphysical blanks. The narrator doesn’t understand what the big deal is. We do this sort of thing all the time in the literary arts, says the narrator. The reader disagrees. The reader says to the narrator, I’d like something a little more solid. To this, the narrator replies, Then why don’t you go and write a tome of your own? The narrator is in a bad way. Recently, tragedy befell the narrator. The reader, on the other hand, is fine. The reader is always fine. They come to the text with nothing inside of them. They come emptied out. The reader is a divine spirit. The narrator needs therapy. The reader is a holy fool. The narrator has a lot to get off their chest. The reader is a good listener. The narrator never listens. The narrator talks and talks and talks, mostly about dear theories of narration, theories close to heart, crowding other organs, taking up vital resources, skewing the trajectory of blood, sapping oxygen of essential nutrients, and redirecting the distribution of vitamins and minerals.