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When they said they heard voices, I didn't believe them. I thought they were just trying to spin me a tale worth pondering.
But even now, I get mail sent to their demons. Magazine subscriptions made and paid by imaginary figures. Hospital bills. Grocery ads.
There's no face to make out... just ones to make up. But I swear I can see the dimple in the walls when the lean against it. The brusqueness of an echo without a source.
Those living thoughts... they arise in the air, float, observe for the briefest moment, and then dissipate. I thought them foolish for revering me as their creator, but what's a life without misplaced worship?
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