At this moment, on another Earth, a man is locked in a padded cell, nodding to the gibbering chorus of voices in his head and smearing out his manifesto on the grimy walls of the asylum using a jagged fingernail and his bodily fluids.
This chorus tells him things, you see. They warn him of the many hands posed to strike him, and demand revenge for every slight. They praise him, stroke his ego, and feed his rage.
On this Earth, the asylum is the bedlam of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the inmate is the president of the United States, and instead of managing this dangerous patient, the staff sings his praises and encourages his worst behaviors.