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THE doctors didn't believe me; they only believe in their pharmacopoeia -- a lot of addicts do -- but I made them believe in the end. I had to. The others left me no choice. Too many sleepless nights had ripped a gash in perception. Out there, on the far side, through the fog of delirium, I sensed their presence. I wasn't alone. I saw them hinted and outlined by the weak light that leaked from the waking world: sculptures of silhouette utter dark against the shadows of endless time. I knew; they'd been waiting, they'd been calling. Now they had me -- and they forced me to sit and write. This is what they told me to say.