NOT A HOLOGRAM is a novel—meaning a new form, or a relatively new shape of long-form fiction in the truest sense. It is an attempt to capture what it means to be alive right now, embodied in the form of a book, which is itself a precise and complicated sculpture. Its form is deliberate. It has a front and back cover, pages filled with text. It tells the story of a protagonist searching for identity, for escape from addiction, for meaning. It employs narrative and prose, but also poetry, lyrics, cut-ups, text-speak, AI-generated fragments, and the discarded jargon of failed marketing campaigns. It is written for a world that no longer reads. For a world posting selfies at the edge of an apocalypse, projected onto a doomscroll everyone sees but can’t quite comprehend. It is an image. And the image is the object. The more you look, the more you like. And the more you like, the more you see.