佛说

This novel should be called “Guts on Display,” born from a dream where the abdomen is split open by a scalpel. The intestines, meant to produce excrement, spill out brain matter instead. Amoebas writhe and dance, supernovas explode, giants paint on Jupiter’s surface, and aliens hungrily gnaw at genetic chains.

Among garlic pork, rivers of vodka, and acid rain made of colourful pills, people march through urban towers wearing astronaut helmets. A steel-crafted dancer, unable to find its eyes, turns to its customer and says, “Amitabha.”

And the Buddha replied, “Love me if you dare.”

It’s hard to say what this piece is describing. It has the surrealism of a circus, and so that’s what I’ll call it: Circus Literature.