May the great novels of the next
century be free from stories. May
protagonists come, and go, and
refuse the arcs offered. May guns,
Checkov and otherwise, reveal
themselves to be made of
chocolate, and melt uncared
for under a saguaro sun. And
may feeling appear, disappear,
without remorse or courses
leading horses or non-horse
to and from water and food.
May oases and mirages blend
together, without reason,
without season, without
treason. May narrators be
not only unreliable, may
they abandon the undear
reader at inopportune
and neutral moments.
May archetypes fill land
fills with junkets past,
with myths undone as
they are not even fuel
for what might burn
next.
Roman Ryan 
When you wrote this piece how did you feel? Can you tell me more about the title you choose? Thanks for sharing your thoughts with everyone.