Quiet, subtle, uncomfortable horror gnaws at the hem of the novel. Creeping in and out of surrealism. Dominating and suffocating consumerism. The pattern we often see of humans mimicking other humans. What is individual identity and how do we find comfort within? What do we do when someday, we realize we’re now sitting on the other side of the table? What do we see when in an effort to be ourselves, we actually become someone else entirely?

This was a fascinating, strange, work of literature. I liked it so much that I literally am starting over and reading it a second time, immediately after finishing it.

It reminded me of Haruki Murakami (in general) meets My Year of Rest and Relaxation (Ottessa Moshfegh), meets Cult X (Fuminori Nakamura).

I know there are some complaints about being undeveloped, vapid, or transparent. I would recommend reading this book with a broader sense in mind. The characters are really just props in a story - aren’t we all?