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

I sat on the bed. I looked at the Rorschach blot. I tried to make it look like a spreading tree, shadows pooled beneath it, but it didn't. It looked more like a dead cat I once found, the fat, glistening grubs writhing blindly, squirming over each other, frantically tunneling away from the light. But even that isn't the real horror. The horror is this: in the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness.

Once you realize what a joke everything is, being the Comedian is the only thing that makes sense.