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

     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 AOC, but it wasn’t AOC, and it wasn’t the voice I’d assigned to Alex, either, which was part AOC and part the voice of some internal narrator I had on default half the time—a voice I didn’t call for,

     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 AOC’s voice—a voice I designated as having come from the future.  I defined that person to be the real AOC—the present living and breathing woman

     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 AOC 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 just

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 AOC 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 have. 

     “I want to marry AOC,” 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 said

     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