a psychic scream from the Warlocks echoed through the minds of the audience. It shifted and writhed like the patterns on the dancers' suits, gradually coalescing into a chilling, gibbering laugh of madness, corruption and depravity. But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep.
I will neither agree nor deny the existence of a diety.