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

     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

     “You want me to be like you,” I said, in my voice, to the future me—where me could simply mean the person that I would be if I hadn’t vetoed various parts of myself for any number of reasons.  That me, then, was everything that I could be, but cannot be, and, as such,