"Those were great times, huh, Rorschach? What happened?"
"You quit."
"What happened to the American dream?"
"What happened to the American dream? It came true! You're looking at it."
When you walk down the street in a city dying of rabies...past the human cockroaches...talking about their heroin and child pornography...do you really feel normal?
We're all puppets, Laurie. I'm just a puppet who can see the strings.
— Is that bean juice?
— Yeah, human bean juice.
Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But Doctor... I am Pagliacci." Good joke. Everybody laugh.
Miracles. Events with astronomical odds of occurring...like oxygen turning into gold. I've longed to witness such an event, and yet I neglect that in human coupling millions upon millions of cells compete to create life...for generation after generation...until finally, your mother loves a man Edward Blake, the Comedian, a man she has every reason to hate...and out of that contradiction, against unfathomable odds...it's you. Only you. That emerged. To distill so specific a form... from all that chaos is like turning air into gold. A miracle.
Without condoning or condemning. I understand.
"Least I'm not the one still hiding behind a mask."
"No. You're hiding in plain sight."
I would only agree that a symbolic clock is as nourishing to the intellect as a photograph of oxygen to a drowning man.
Miracles, by their definition, are meaningless. Only what can happen does happen.
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