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Pastimes : "I STILL own the ban button, buddy" -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: average joe who wrote (2008)	3/4/2013 6:02:51 PM
From: Solon	2 Recommendations Respond to of 2133

"The sad little fella needs some help." If he would just show his posts to his family or church leaders, he might get the feedback needed to get him the help he needs. As long as he secretly continues to spew his delusional hate and to nurture these venomous attacks against persons...he will only get sicker. When was the last time you received a post from him which was put forth in good faith to discuss an issue--rather than merely as a Mean and Petty personal attack and libel? I am reminded of a short story by Nabokov. In this instance, the troubled boy does not include real people in his complex. But then...neither does Greggy. His persecuters are "Ponokee" and "Solon" and god knows who else! Numerous people who consider him so important they spend weeks lurking about his hovel and following him about in his daily affairs! Too sad to even laugh about, eh? I copied a short excerpt. newyorker.com "...“Referential mania,” the article had called it. In these very rare cases, the patient imagines that everything happening around him is a veiled reference to his personality and existence. He excludes real people from the conspiracy, because he considers himself to be so much more intelligent than other men. Phenomenal nature shadows him wherever he goes. Clouds in the staring sky transmit to each other, by means of slow signs, incredibly detailed information regarding him. His in- most thoughts are discussed at nightfall, in manual alphabet, by darkly gesticulating trees. Pebbles or stains or sun flecks form patterns representing, in some awful way, messages that he must intercept. Everything is a cipher and of everything he is the theme. All around him, there are spies. Some of them are detached observers, like glass surfaces and still pools; others, such as coats in store windows, are prejudiced witnesses, lynchers at heart; others, again (running water, storms), are hysterical to the point of insanity, have a distorted opinion of him, and grotesquely misinterpret his actions. He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being...."