Fake, all of it. The talkshow host, tonight’s matador, was the fakest of all. Elijah was not quite as bad yet- even so, he felt silicone creeping into his veins, morning after morning, as his easy laugh became more light-hearted, his bashful smile shyer, his quirks more endearing. Of course, Elijah could clearly discern the idol from the man when he was alone, when he was himself; but when he heard his name mentioned on the radio, when cheap tabloid articles all carried his smiling face, and when he sat, as he did now, repeating rehearsed replies to petty questions in the blinding spotlight- he could not be so sure. The sentiment of temporary incongruity shook him to the very depths of his soul, and the longer he lingered on it, the more fiercely he trembled. But it was nothing the great Elijah Adamos could not handle.
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