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February 8, 2008

He had a bad habit. He would gather all the people he had ever known into the courtroom of his consciousness so that they could judge him. They would tell him exactly what they thought. Every so often he would realize they didn’t exist, that they were only figments of his memory, that the real people to which each representation corresponded were living out their individual lives, rarely thinking about him, let alone judging him. The centrifugal forces would take over, lessening the pressure, and he felt free for a moment. The next moment, everything was different: “Now is not night, but tonight, it will be.”