“Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent
new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and
knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night.
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not
there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live
our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born
from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion.
There is nothing else.
Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after
staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose.
This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is
not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny
that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire.
The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice,
shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this
morally blank world.
Was Rorschach.
Does that answer your Questions, Doctor?”
―
Alan Moore,
Watchmen
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