The best magic is not a transgression against the order of things, but an exaggeration thereof. It is not of fireballs and lightning bolts, but coke bottles, bread, and clock ticks. It's not about transcendence, it's about strange comprehension, inertia, about insinuating the self into the other. It's not satire, not quite. It's emphasis, outgrowth, evolution.
If you want me, you can find me behind the white picket fence at the drive-in theater.
They're playing a Triple Hit of Horror.
The real truth isn't the details, but the order behind them.
Let's cast a Pizza Hut ritual, burn our enemies in obesity and fire.
It'll be cool.
I learnt it from this kid up the block, right? Before he moved, yeah. His parents were, ah, on the run or something.
It'll be great.