Precise description as a kind of texture; an arabesque. A statement about the world: that the number of plots is infinite. (The Man Who Was Thursday.)
Just when you think you're onto one story, he throws you another--perpendicular to the other--& which may or may not intersect any of the previous.
"...there would come to him hints of the perfume those people distill from the wings of black moths."
Like the plots of TV shows that become so convoluted (i remember "Dark Shadows" in particular) they're impossible to follow...
Lives lived at the intersection of Futility & Obsesion.
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