Quis custodiet ipsos custodes.

I just finished reading Alan Moore's "Watchmen." I bought it this evening from Barnes and Noble and read it cover to cover, finishing the last few chapters wrapped up in my covers like an eleven year old staying up past his bed time. It's brilliant, honestly. Without a doubt one of the finest comic book stories I have read. Or should I say "graphic novel"? Must "comic book" still carry with it a negative connotation? (Read Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics, I beg you. This means you, Kate, if you are reading. It is not only the best book on the comic form, but an incredible work on aesthtics, art theory, and storytelling in the visual medium.)
Yesterday I finished Stephen King's Bag of Bones, what was billed as "A Haunted Romance." It was. And one if his better works, I must say.
I'm not sure why all this is important enough to post. Perhaps it's worth posting because it *isn't* all that important. Who wants more rambling about the meaning of life from an online journal. Not me.
Because then, you get, well, take it away, Rorschach...
"The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever, and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reasons later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hellbound as ourselves; go to oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose..."~Rorschach, "Watchmen"
Like that. See?