Here I present the Mad Man. He sees and hears the rending of reality. He has grasped the very fabric of our petty existence and with his words, the merest of words, he will proceed, as though all this reality was nothing but damp tissue paper, to rip it apart. He has power, possessed by no normal mind, for he is Mad.
In this Mad Man's world, we are only figments and fragments of a shattered image, far removed from the perfect whole he seeks to create. He strives and flounders, our linked selves opposing His every attempt to right this most disastrous wrong. There are so few of the Mad, and so many of us, the broken sane. The tide of denial and ignorance piles against the Mad Man, too much to fight, too many to convince. He is powerless against us.
Are you proud? Are you proud of this legacy we will hold? We, the fools who refused to listen. The true insane, so rutted and restrained by what we thought to be true that we closed every door the Mad Man tried to open. Each warning and preemptive world shunned and laughed at. Each attempt at procuring for us our salvation, brushed aside with disdain.
Here stands the Mad Man. He sees all that is true, beholds the reality beyond our tinted falsities. He regards us, the broken sane, as pitiful remnants of something beautiful. What could we have built, what could we become? If only we had listened to the Mad Man.