"I was made to love magic."--Nick Drake
The world makes its own magic, and we are of the world. The magic of which I speak requires no fantastic machinery: no sprites or genies, fairies or familiars. One need rub no lamp, need cast no spell. The magic of which I speak is wholly of this world.
Though worldly, this magic must not be trifled with. It pours on one like a cataract, buoying one up as it dashes him to bits.
I have been deliciously quartered by this magic, my parts sent to the corners of its kingdom that is no kingdom without exile as a warning to those who would deny its power.
It's a fearful magic that reminds one he is a poor magus indeed.
But, more than anything, it's a healing magic, bringing care to the wounded. It turns scars to butterflies, restores grace to blood still flowing for blood spilt.
It's a magic that lilts Baudelaire during hours deep in the bowels of night.
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