When you take Pervitin everything goes to your head and you’re on high alert—you do it to eavesdrop on good people talking to each other across time and space, and you convince yourself that those people are talking about you. You feel, then, that destiny is calling you, and you put your best foot forward. But if you’re not yourself—if you’ve taken something to veto the child within, you can’t hear yourself or anybody else that might want to communicate with you. You only hear what you want to hear—about how great you are and or will be once you get something done. I don’t know if it was Hitler’s mental illness or his drug abuse that made him think that killing people was going to make everybody look up to him—as if he was getting all kinds of things done, but it was probably both; I just don’t know which one came first—his mental illness or his Pervitin.
must keep them separated, no jazz—no planning goes in it; no black people in Germany, and, when I can, I’ll make war on the American continent; i might as well team up with the Japanese, since, for now, i need them to divert America’s attention. but then I’ll get rid of the Japanese—German mothers will be pumping out babies for me to draft into the military—they’ll do their bit and earn their wife. they’ll be lucky, they’ll marry the men before they go, to show them that they support them in their endeavor, and their love will be their reward
those that marry outside the German race are mentally ill, and should be institutionalized, or, at least, sterilized
I tried talking to Hitler then by projecting Hitler’s voice and thinking of him when I did it—that made him internal to me and allowed me to input thoughts in his head—thoughts that he wouldn’t be able to understand, or place. I knew that I couldn’t stop the holocaust: history was bound to happen no matter what I did, but I did my best to reach him, and, through him, perhaps I’d reach those around him, and they would recognize Hitler’s illness. That might egg Hitler on, for all I knew, but I would be sowing the seeds of love to those that remained in the background—those that still had a chance at redemption. You might say, as a Christion, that everybody has a chance at redemption no matter who they are, but, in Hitler’s case, he’d have to show that he’d been treated badly by both his family and his doctor. Furthermore, he’d probably have to move somewhere that the people wouldn’t know him, and maybe, just maybe, if he kept a low profile, and kept himself away from the German people in general (that only egged him on) he could enter a state of recovery, and, eventually, when he died, he’d realize that the holocaust never actually happened to him.
“Hey, Adolph,” I projected. “you’re parents are here.”
Then, sometime later, I heard him, speaking in my voice—more like gushing, really, saying that his parents weren’t here; and, indeed, they weren’t: his father, Alois, died of a stroke when Hitler was thirteen, and his mother, Klara, died of breast cancer when Hitler was eighteen.
I tried to explain that his parents, in fact, would never leave him—although they might evolve and change over time. Furthermore I tried to help him understand that his father may have never existed in the first place—and by that I mean that, at least in my opinion, horrible things are perpetrated not by living souls, but, instead, by cosmic enforcers that could not, and would not, tolerate people continuously doing less than they needed to be happy. They, in that sense, were as empty as the spirits that made them unhappy, and, if there were real parts to them, then they would be forced to spend time together. Given that Hitler’s father was known as a harsh man, I tried to pass on the knowledge that both Hitler and his father, in some cases, one and the same, were enforcing each other to be happy, and, as such, great parts of them mightn’t really exist.