Speaking of DFW...

...Edward Champion was there. And, I'm, well, here. Which isn't there. Which is sad. But c'est la vie.

("The Soul is Not a Smithy," which is in Oblivion, by the way, I should just say, jesus. Seriously. It's easy to forget with the text games and the crazy prose and the stunts and the big ideas and what have you that when DFW gets it up in his mind to make it his beeswax to affect you, the reader, emotionally, he really does, and he does so in a way that somehow cuts through, both through the text and through you, almost painfully; at least he does when you're me, I guess. Your mileage may vary. But I hope it doesn't, cuz, god. Chills. Great story.)

(Also the other night I broke through the fourth wall. But you know how that usually entails text looking at the reader or realizing its own status as the text, that when we refer to the fourth wall we mean some "action" taken by the text? No. It was me who broke through the wall; the text received me, even though I'm not sure it was aware of it at the time. But I'm not sure if that's the kind of story you can tell on the Internet without causing people to shift their weight nervously from foot to foot while looking for an excuse to go elsewhere, somewhere away from you. God only knows. It was in a dream, but still.)