Alan Moore - Watchmen #7

Wisdom, whether owl or sphinx, a shadow tomb, pulls black flesh to void. He kisses her hand and descends, silent, naked, alone. 

Demon of the air, shadow casting, slide over land, a bane to the sun. See the warm white cold flesh enter the cave, see it, truth sweating. Watch it turn yellow in this land of wolves. "Okay, it's a fuck up, what're we going to do now?"

"I believe I was spared so I could finish the job."

To prick the human conscience itself, to make it bleed the shape of hopeless loss, and want to die but know that conscience denies, even as the gravity of nothing leaves it laughing and alone.

Savages. Kill the savages. Repress criticism. Be sad about duty. Neglect family, lost. Be your father. Do it. Do it again.

"You're everyone!" she screamed, facing the faceless ghost, saviour scapegoat, the fabricated truth which, teaching you how to impersonate yourself, teaches you how to believe. "Who... who the hell are you?" "You'd be surprised how often i get asked that."

Void floating black boat, an abyss upon the sea or a face that seems, warbling shifting, never mixing, cooking fat screams, you have it all wrong: you are in here with me.

Listen folks, we were feeling chatty at the beginning of this episode. It happens. If you don't want to listen to three guys shoot the shit about current events, our conversation about everyone's favourite Kafka-esque dark romance, The Lobster, begins at about the 10 minute mark. Don't say we didn't warn you! "We dance alone. That's why we only play electronic music."

Why do you believe something? Ask yourself. Ask yourself about light. Ask yourself about light asking about light. Why do you believe? What is it, that underlying certainty? Is that love?

Love, the mother of all bombs, is a mirror, looking back at the horror you might have been.