/lit/ - Literature

I just met Don DeLillo outside of an apartment building in NYC. He has completely lost his mind and appeared to be suffering from dementia. He was smoking a cigarette. I told him I liked Libra and Underworld and that Mao II was shit. He kept repeating: “it comes down to a sound, a color...” and “thank you, thank you,” and “sound and color, color and sound,” ad nauseam.

I don’t care if you believe me. It was incredibly sad.

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