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distant and diluted, as if being dragged beneath the silence.
“It raises the question of freedom, does it not, Family
Man? Specifically, that you may never have known it, not
really. Not how you’ve figured it, anyway. Were you simply
produced, as if from an assembly line, cog after widget? Did
she construct you and then simply fill you up with her will?
That leaves precious little room for free will, yes?” The
voice came from around a nearby corner, where stretched
a tall and jagged shadow. I followed the voice around the
turn, encountering a massive statue, scraping widely spread,
grey wings against the vanishing ceiling, where darkness
gathered like crows. The name engraved upon its base read,
Deleriael, Angel of Madness.
The statue rose from the floor like piling smoke, pouring
upward and outward, feasting upon the plump shadows that
hovered closely, chewing their dark secrets to dust. There
was no reason to question the source of the voice, as it was
surely the towering figure, which cackled at my confusion as
if it were a brand of comedy. I chose to address the speaker
calmly, remitting the traditional bemusement with which
one might feel obliged to repay such blatant oddness. “And
so, it must be madness that solely acquits one of oppression,
I suppose. And perhaps so. But what is freedom without
wonder, angel? No madman ever wondered. The mad
only take fantasy for fact, as if pink elephants have been
scientifically calculated, genus and species. Theirs is the
twisted logic of chicanery, birthing beliefs no less solid for
their silliness. I’ve known a great many lunatics, all of them
glorious company, but utterly dim to the dreams that begot
their terrible freedom, and all of them utterly unwilling to
ponder the question.”
At first, the statue stared absently into the never-ending
shelves of chronicled madness, although I knew its silence
was not from want of response, merely the indolence of
endless creatures. I was received of a reply soon enough.
“You don’t even know what you’re missing, so who are
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