Lunar Park

“I want you to realize some things about yourself. I want you to reflect on your life. I want you to be aware of all the terrible things you have done. I want you to face the disaster that is Bret Easton Ellis.”

I stood up. “What do you mean? Is this Clayton or not?”
“I’m everything. I’m everyone.” A static-filled pause. “I’m even you.”

The writer disliked me because I was trying to follow a chart.
I was following an outline. I was calculating the weather. I was predicting events. I wanted answers. I needed clarity. I had to control the world.
The writer yearned for chaos, mystery, death. These were his inspirations. This was the impulse he leaned toward. The writer wanted bombs exploding. The writer wanted the Olympian defeat. The writer craved myth and legend and coincidence and flames. The writer wanted Patrick Bateman back in our lives. The writer was hoping the horror of it all would galvanize me.
I was at a point where all of what the writer wanted filled me with simple remorse.