I am writing a novel. It is written on hundreds of different-sized scraps of paper. The publisher, an elitist rich guy, rejects it. But then I am visited in my attic loft by two twins, also publishers, hip and young. First they are both male, then one male, one female. They are interested. I describe it to them as an absurdist, existentialist hard-boiled mystery. I say it features a hero who mostly sits in an empty room and stares out a window all day. They want me to read them a couple of pages. I get really nervous. It is a first draft, super rough. Also, I apparently collaborated with Yannis on it, and I am not willing to admit that. But I need to read them a couple of pages, so I begin, but as I am reading I am noticing problems with the sentence-structure and everything else, so I am forced to edit and revise on the spot, verbally, as I read. Nerve-wracking! Each sentence needs to be transformed into something better as it is read. I read very, very slowly, which feels awkward. It begins with a description of a cityscape with smoky streets and something I call “ragged sky-holes.” The female publisher likes this. Then the private-eye protagonist goes to visit the eccentric rich man who may have a case for him. The rich man in the novel is the same as the rich man who rejected the novel. He is in his huge backyard staring at his giant goldfish pond, in which a child plays. The hero approaches him from behind and cannot seem to get his attention. Finally the rich man turns around and says something like, “It was unnecessary for you to make me turn around simply to see that you are not there.” So this guy is crazy. The hero makes some comment about the little boy being a “gold-fish herder,” because he basically is chasing goldfish around the pool. The whole scene is absurd, comical, and the hero has no idea what he is doing there.