Joey Frazier:  

estions. Never mind. Answers soon. Nothing is insoluble. Nothing is hopeless. Not while there's life. In the cemetery, all the white crosses stood in rows, neat chalk marks on a giant scoreboard. Paid last respects quietly, without fuss. Edward Morgan Blake. Born 1924. Forty-Five years a comedian, buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends, so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses. Violent lives ending violently. The Silhoette, Captain Metropolis. We never die in bed. Not allowed. Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to. Others bury their heads between the swollen teats of indulgence and gratification, piglets squirming beneath a sow for shelter, but there is no shelter and the future is bearing down like an express train. Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together. He saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. Thats why he was lonely. Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says treatment is simple. Great clown pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should bring you up. Man bursts into tears. Says "But, doctor. I AM Pagliacci." Good Joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains. -Rorschach (Watchmen)".