This book's writing is slipping away from itself, becoming exposed, an outsider to the genre. Is this, then, a detective novel on the run? A collection of poems fleeing from itself? An essay that escapes at full speed? Aphorisms in search of an emergency exit? It's about not understanding. Not understanding and unraveling. Following clues. Asking yourself what makes something what it is. What makes a novel a novel? What makes a poem a poem? What makes a detective story a detective story? An aphorism an aphorism? A woman a woman? A man a man? A genre the genre?