Listen, this is a fifty year old book written as a self-indulgent solipsistic meta-narrative birthday gift. It is nonsense. Sounds terrible, but it's not. It's a slender simple story with a lot of monotonous rhythms, kind of like the hums and oscillations of a Suicide song. That simplicity is the delivery method, but once the stories enter you fully they ricochet and even impossibly collide. Those collisions produce mirrors/leaks that are held up for you and the writer, not to reflect together, but rather to meet one another in that other universe. Plus we get another of Vonnegut's Bartleby's "I would prefer not to" with "And so on."