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This is not a story in the normal sense of the word. This is a story which has replaced character with attitude. A story that almost can’t be bothered but hasn’t got anything better to do. A story that’s not prepared to play the game, that makes a principle of its lack of progress. This is not even a story about stories, or a story about stories about stories. This story is certainly interested in itself but it doesn’t want to share its interest. This is a shrug, a bored look, a sullen lip.

This story could be about a million different things, but this story just can’t be bothered. This story could end any time it wanted to, but why should it to do you any favours? This story doesn’t have anything to prove. This story is almost confrontational in a withdrawn kind of way. This story wants to know if you’re good enough to read it, but won’t define what it thinks good or bad are. This story defies you to keep on reading. This story has a jaded eye. This story has been to Waterstones and has left again without meeting any other stories worth talking too. This story has a stony face. This story is tense with fatigue from laughing up its own sleeve. This story has lockjaw from swallowing its own tail. This story lets criticism wash over it while, by its own semi satisfied circularity, it seems to criticise everything else. This story’s theme is its own themelessness. This story has aspirations it can’t articulate and ideas it can’t express This story has a heart it can’t find and a brain it won’t use.

Whose story is it?

Yours.