> From this.

I was possessed of what I like to call “fugues” back when, now and again. It was basically some element in my visions taking me over. I became like as a spectator to what was going on, though I would sometimes be thinking and talking. One was of this person I had met once, who got involved somehow when this had started. In the fugue, he called himself DEMON, except that it was as if I were like a full on person puppet to what he was saying and gesturing. We went on this monologue, to the spectators in my head, though I don’t remember what exactly we said; we ended our speech with “I am DEMON, hear me.” There was another one that was strangely enough in praise of Adolf Hitler. I do remember one line from that: “Adolf Hitler was born in the kiss with Eva Braun when they were wed.” Something like that. I have no idea.

There was once a passive fugue that was as if it were pouring through me: the secret lives of trees. An Escher book, made of paper, connected me to the voices of the trees. I talked in the secret of the trees. Why books were made of paper was for such a thing to occur, for us to be aware that trees were alive. I also remember praying to Alice Walker, the author who wrote The Color Purple. That one I didn’t regret, at all. But certainly, there were misdeeds I carried out, of my own free will, and but for the grace of God would they have had terrible consequences. What is our responsibility, even when we call ourselves mad? Lament, sinner, that you did not do as you could have, or done what you should not. There is a light. Try to walk in it. You are without excuse — but once you realize just that, suddenly you may see: you are forgiven. Just like that.

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The Great Blasphemy