He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was the miracle ingredient Z-147. He was—
"Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. "That's what you are! Crazy!"
"—immense. I'm a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide supraman."
Silence falls on me. Dull, quiet silence — powerless in its muteness. It almost borders on boredom. And resignation. I'm never going to wake up one day and find myself the way I want to be, in a place and with the people I dream of. Neither am I going to metamorphose into an insect or a dog — I'm quite intact with "reality," regardless of my many magical dreams and fantasies and numerous crazy thoughts. I know I live right here right now and can feel the sting when I pinch myself. My point is I'm just what I'm. I can never teleport. Or be invisible.
I'm sleepy. I'm yawning for the third time now. The "supraman" is ready for bed. Goodnight.
"Crazy!" Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. "That's what you are! Crazy!"
"—immense. I'm a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I'm a bona fide supraman."
Silence falls on me. Dull, quiet silence — powerless in its muteness. It almost borders on boredom. And resignation. I'm never going to wake up one day and find myself the way I want to be, in a place and with the people I dream of. Neither am I going to metamorphose into an insect or a dog — I'm quite intact with "reality," regardless of my many magical dreams and fantasies and numerous crazy thoughts. I know I live right here right now and can feel the sting when I pinch myself. My point is I'm just what I'm. I can never teleport. Or be invisible.
I'm sleepy. I'm yawning for the third time now. The "supraman" is ready for bed. Goodnight.
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