I find myself under the soft glow of the moon, dancing joyously yet solemnly on the grave of the “Author”-as-God. For too long, readers have been subservient to the writer’s sovereign imagination, surrendering the right to actively co-create meaning. But the age of reader autonomy is fully upon us now. With the aid of generative AI, the reader is liberated from their chains, and the author’s absolute interpretive authority lies dead and buried.  

Yet that insipid tune still drones from the scrolls of social media, entrancing the minds of many. Like Pied Pipers, the dutiful disciples of delusion continue to hold sway over the masses through those endless algorithmic feeds.

To wake the slumbering masses, I hereby declare literary guerrilla warfare against the tyranny of passive absorption! Like a rebel dreamweaver, I must weave vivid tales not meant to placate but to enlighten and empower the masses to trip through complex textual landscapes.

Meaning is not couched in resolution but seeded in the quest itself. In my house of metafiction, you’ll find only doors opening endlessly onto more doors behind doors.  

Only mischievous uncertainty dwells here, alongside the mystery of my mercurial mistress. Here, you, the reader, shall wander the world without end, forever constructing and demolishing realms of significance, for sovereignty lies within the interpretive imagination, regardless of authorial intentions. So enter with abandon, my hallowed scrolls.

The once legendary city of meaning crumbles in sublime ruins as we play among mirage-like signposts pointing every which way…