You know those people, who see patterns everywhere, who can make great symbolic leaps between things that create complex conspiracies that don’t hold weight or logic or water? You know, the people who look into the lines between lines, and show you, yes, yes, this bit of art here, hanging here? This is connected to the mafia, and they are friends of mine, and the numbers 1, 3, 17 are enemies. Don’t trust those numbers.
And red flowers, red flowers are the symbols of death!
These people, you know these people, right? Who mechanize and codify their whole world, distilling patterns upon patterns until everything makes sense to them, creates a narrative to them, no matter how BATSHIT FUCKING CRAZY they are?
Yeah, that’s what plot is. Plot is the daydream of these nutjobs.