Incoherent, only seeming meaningful. But I read it straight through in one sitting, happily following the ratchet of images, characters, vague paranoid opaque dialogue, some of it very good or at least the dismembered parts of good dialogue. Clowes now seems mean, misunderstanding, where as a teen I found his uglification of the ordinary deep (“the ordinary is ugly, underneath, man”). Now I see the beauty in certain moderate, conventional, consensus things. Now I see how rare and fragile they are.