5      “Who are you?”  I heard that in Anna’s voice after striking a chord that was made up of my voice, my nephew’s voice, and Anna Karenina’s voice.  This was big news!  I’d made contact, so I knew, at that point, that I was on target.  Now, I doubt Anna actually sat down and

     suddenly i didn’t want to shift into Hitler or Jack Daniels’ body anymore; however, because of my risperidone, I might find myself, at times, shifting a little anyhow:  sometimes goodness isn’t an option—it’s required, which, you may remember from a Sunday school class, is what the devil wanted for everybody.  He wanted us to

     I can hear people talking, somebody said in Jack Daniels’ brain—it sounded kind of like Anna Karenina, but it wasn’t Anna Karenina, and it wasn’t the voice I’d assigned to Anna, either, which was part Anna Karenina and part the voice of some internal narrator I had on default half the time—a voice I

     What was McCord up to?  Was he going to shift into Blondi’s (Jack Daniels’ wife’s) brain?  Or was there more that he could do with Eva to relieve suffering in our futures?  I asked him about it when I told him where I’d been, and he said that he’d had two shifts—one with Eva

     Everybody wants eternal life: getting around death is the driving force for everybody; for most of us that means we refuse to think about it—we ignore it, and, in our youth, especially, act like, yes, in fact, we’re so important that we’ll never die—we don’t account for our older personhood.  A little Pervitin, no

     After a little time passed, I found myself hearing myself using a voice that was a combination of an internal voice that I seemingly used all the time and Anna Karenina’s voice—a voice I designated as having come from the future.  I defined that person to be the real Anna Karenina—the present living and

     Thank God for Pervitin  and  “Hello, Adolph!”   we were speaking in my obnoxious grandmother’s voice, but her voice sounded an awful lot like mine: that must’ve been Anna Karenina squared.  all his work is degenerate  so i said nothing for a moment.  the thing about degenerate art work is that it’s not degenerate: it

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