Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together...he saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely.

Well, what do you expect? The Comedian is dead.

Ideas are bulletproof.

This city is dying of rabies. Is the best I can do to wipe random flecks of foam from its lips?

I don’t distinguish between magic and art. When I got into magic, I realised I had been doing it all along, ever since I wrote my first pathetic story or poem when I was twelve or whatever. This has all been my magic, my way of dealing with it.

I did it thirty-five minutes ago.

Who? Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.