Æsahættr

i was watching this guy today, the one with the orange cap. he's about to be thirty and reading a children's novel, and he cried at the end of this chapter, when one of the characters died. intense. pathetic. and then he climbed up the stairs and stretched his arms wide open to the cool breeze of early mornings, and he smiled like there's no tomorrow, immensely content for a very short second, but long enough to whisper dazlious to himself before he stepped out of the bliss and back into his own office at the corner of this and that in his own world.

he then embarked on yet another imaginary letter in his head: dear buk, you're a pretty good read, but not all lose it around thirty, some keep it burning. regards, sh. he didn't need stamps, for in his mind letters are delivered instantly once they're authored. you see he thinks there's only one mind divided between individuals. the little voices are but only the sound of other random individuals thinking within our vicinity in the universal mind. the only problem is that people in our mental vicinity are almost never geographically close or even known to us. so there's no good way to tell their identity or intentions or even level of sanity.

he's of course nuts to think this, but he likes the idea of others hearing his thoughts in their heads, and maybe once in a while listening to his crazy ideas, and maybe even acting on it only to explain themselves to their friends: the little voices told me to do so. huh, beat that.

i know this guy who thinks he's a little voice inside little heads of little human beings out there. and he makes them do things and see things differently. he thinks it's a funny little world and we're all his funny little puppets. i think he's nuts. he thinks i'm him.