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November 28, 2011
His stubble was a forest of dulled greasy pins. He would rub his hand across it often, whenever he had to think.

He was thinking right now. Eventually, he came to a conclusion.

Everyone was mad. Apart from him, because he wasn't everyone.
Everyone was stark-raving mad. Insane. Unable to hold a rational thought in their head. Everyone slobbered and dripped with insanity, screaming insanity, dreaming insanity.

They slept in it and washed in it and worked in it and talked in it.

He was the only non-crazy person left in the entire world. How crazy is that?