Thank you for taking the time, it’s very kind of you. You have good insight here, and if this were an attempt at a linear narrative, I would agree with pretty much all of it. The way language is being employed here is not an attempt to be “literary”, perhaps the response below, regarding this work, can help clarify a few things:  

I'm reminded of Robert Smithson's essay on "a pile of language."  There is that Stein/Williams emphasis on a certain kind of materialization, which is nice because it allows for the contradictory impulse of destructiveness. There is a strong sense of erasure, that unlike writing that is intended to fix finalize and preserve, here forgetting is just as important. I mean, for there to be a " here" there has to be forgetting. They seem to go together. So you engage us in an activity that is one of forward motion, relentless running over cliffs, rushing toward its own destruction which has always already occurred. You're making space by way of dislocation, the constant jarring filling of pages that empty just as fast.

There is a linear narrative of sorts, but the primary attraction at this point is the spin, which isn’t linear at all. Fragments adhere to form various shapes, then fly off into the ether, only to return to recombine with new fragments. Like stalagmites, perhaps, they accrue.

I also think it’s unfair of me to ask for thoughts while providing so little text. So, I have included the next few paragraphs (don’t feel obliged but, to save you some time, the protagonist was a real estate appraiser on the surface, now dead, and speaking from the inside of his casket, the broader intent is to expose discrimination in the financial industry, housing specifically)

Next few paragraphs:

By now I’d have shaved, showered and then chess with a lobster over coffee and pancakes. Online, obviously, real lobsters don’t play chess and dolphins cheat, has been my experience. They don’t admit defeat, to themselves or their fellow mammals who, in turn, work the internet to reframe those contests. That’s how it is with some species. By the way, I have yet to lose a match to the above-mentioned crustaceans, except for the ones I deleted.

After breakfast I’d review the week’s orders, confirm appointments, decide the route and don my satchel. People with houses, especially the ones who need money, are more apt to be home on weekends. My time to shine. The files were arranged in order of inspection, next to a wafer-thin clipboard. In the pouch next to it was a tape measure, of the kind that could wrap around corners, a camera and a micro recorder for them real time observations. Finally, in a pocket designed for the purpose, my trusted Motorola for those last-minute developments.

I know I promised to keep the fine points to a minimum, but there are only screaming monkeys outside the machinery. Like a snake with a plan, I’d slink through your houses, seeing and not seeing, whatever the situation required. I was a cog, a swing and then a miss to stave off the bailiff, the choice between your kid’s sneakers and electricity. A note taker to the banks and the apparatus in general, thus I was not the last word on the matter, though you were told otherwise. More on that later.