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That [the moment before suicide is] what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? Of course you're a fraud, of course what people see is never you. And of course you know this, and of course you try and manage what part they see if you know it's only a part. Who wouldn't? It's called free will, Sherlock. But at the same time it's why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali-- it's not English anymore, it's not getting squeezed through any hole.
So cry all you want, I won't tell anybody.
But it wouldn't have made you a fraud to change your mind. It would be sad to do it because you think you somehow have to.
-From the short story Good Old Neon
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