Goldfish is a hard novella to sum up. Following my failure to complete 50k in one November in 2011, I succeeded by allowing myself to write ad hoc, create a collage, and wax poetical across every page. Though you will find merely a sober, chain smoking mind in a world where nobody has a name, but me, J.R.; as I wrote in Starbucks in Wellington Circle the details of a book that is about the train ride to the Wellington Circle Starbucks and the ensuing work night, to write the book itself: sketched on the train ride home, a shit show, you know; to try to ennoble such a life, to and fro, back and forth, nothing but dreams and coffee and dream smoke trailing as I drifted wraithlike up the stairs realizing of course as told by a somnambulist who visits me purple lidded once more a Goldfish flying solo peering through the funhouse g/ass at the world outside develops a soul of ice snot to be glared at by normal people with bugged out eyes.