Oh narrative where have you gone? For I have looked long and wide for the stories of crumpled pages, crushed and ripped from the notebook.
Tossed utensils in bitter dissatisfaction, the romance and dining room etiquette. The mysteries of discovery and love and journeys and paths. Where has the classical romance fled in desperation? The aimless prose of life without purpose- the vagrant dolce vita/et decorum est. stories of huffing men of androgynous battles of bamboo shoots that bloom.

For it is science fiction that grabbed the attention of the masses- the road and where it led. And then also one without purpose. This is how love would be found- floating distantly in space with a raging discontent and somber acceptance of the next assignment due whilst Chopin plays instead of the blue Danube and there, a second sun would be found adjacent to two walls not a corner but more so a crease curiously waiting and the light would shine up and divide into two separate circles and beneath the boundaries of each, a shadow. And the sun would know darkness.
Oh narrative where have you run to? Or perhaps we have run from you.