"Tell me one last thing before we part, Nix Uotan. What was Superman's wish on the Miracle Machine?" "He's Superman. He wished only the best for all… - Grant Morrison

A couple of pills started me down the Yellow Brick Road. Vodka tonic, double. What’s the worst that can happen? I thought. I’ll shit myself and choke on my own vomit in the back of a taxi or onstage. At least I’ll die with dignity.

Idealists and reformers all become executioners in their turn. The road to utopia ends with the steps of the scaffold, the endless moment of the guillotine.

We are the hands and eyes and ears, the sensitive probing feelers through which the emergent, intelligent universe comes to know its own form and purpose. We bring the thunderbolt of meaning and significance to unconscious matter, blank paper, the night sky. We are already divine magicians, already supergods. Why shouldn't we use all our brilliance to leap in as many single bounds as it takes to a world beyond ours, threatened by overpopulation, mass species extinction, environmental degradation, hunger, and exploitation? Superman and his pals would figure a way out of any stupid cul-de-sac we could find ourselves in - and we made Superman, after all. All it takes is that one magic word.