You might be saying to yourself, “You’re with McCord, and, by the way, since when did you, as a woman, want to marry a woman?”  My answer is that, until Anna Karenina came along, I had not thought on the matter, and, furthermore, I don’t know if McCord is the right man for me—I never […]

     “I want to marry Anna Karenina,” somebody said, but it wasn’t the sound of my voice; I might have thought that voice was the sound of my voice, since I heard variations of that voice all the time, but I’ve heard my voice on a recording, and they weren’t the same voice.  So I

     McCord was getting a kick out of hanging out in Eva’s brain.  Presently, he did something spectacular.  He projected my voice and said, telepathically, “She’s an idiot.”      I heard that in McCord’s voice—and I was thrilled!  My theories were all coming together, and I was becoming increasingly assured that telepathy would become a

     his hands were shaking when he gave her his keys      That was what Hitler heard—which I heard being spoken in the sound of my natural voice; it was, in effect, Hitler’s thought; I wondered who would be saying such a thing, and, since the thought was channeled through Hitler’s brain, I also wondered

     As long as I was in Hitler’s head and he was actually broadcasting my voice, the good in me was dished out over time and space like a newsletter.  The words he was actually hearing and or broadcasting in his head were directed towards those that, while talented, exploited themselves and others.  So, in

     i can’t speak to these idiots without a cocaine pick-me up; I have a sore throat—God-bless it.  then i’ll tell the German people what i know: we are the greatest on earth.  when we take our Pervitin and we have cocaine and oxycodone to deal with the side effects, we are the purest form

     I tried talking to McCord: I told him to listen while I projected his voice: I said, “Can you hear me, now?”      “But McCord only heard someone—maybe it was my voice, or a blend, say “I can’t hear you.”  That was not something he projected.  That was something he heard.  Then McCord got

       Now, when I shifted into Hitler’s head, I didn’t do it chronologically; that probably had something to do with my state of mind, or whatever served the interest of my futuristic self.  This time around he was thinking about his dog, Blondi, a female German shepherd that was given to him in 1941.      

     When I feel bad, I feel bad because I’m not listening to myself.  I try to pay attention, therefore, to the voices and images I’m hearing and seeing in my head and make some sense out of it.  I made a breakthrough the other day: it occurred to me that you have good artists

monotone: dead to the world—and so the world is dead to me; if  I can’ t be myself, then I’ll be what the German people need—a voice.       I hate this feeling i get after a speech—and before my shot of oxycodone, when the truth, as I see it, is revealed.  People don’t like the