Yet again, filth. And wait a second, is that—it’s Max Vetter again! You find yourself pondering what sort of forces could be at play which seem to inexorably tie you to the insulting criticism of this Max Vetter. Could it be that your existence is relegated to the universe of this most obnoxious of critics, and that there’s no true way to escape him? You put that thought aside; it’s too strange. Instead, you shift your gaze from the world of music and cinema to the most formal and basic of arts: literature. Perhaps then, you’ll be able to find something worthwhile. Oh, but make sure the book isn’t from the last ten years, or else that most unsavory of critics—that one whose name musn’t even be thought of lest he jump out of your seemingly cursed screen to bombard you with more of the malignant slime which he passes off as criticism—could show up in your feed yet again. If you’re careful, you might just find a safe haven in classic literature.

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