The magician has suffered. The magician knows what it is to struggle, it is written in his eyes. He knows what it is to bleed for his craft. The price he has paid has been greater even than blood, greater than the physical realm could comprehend. His creations are woven into the fabric of reality; imperceptible, if skillfully done. The magician knows the pain under his nails of a spell being unleashed, in the tender tissue of the nail-beds and in the soreness behind his eyes, he lives with it every day. He knows of the voices and the humming drone of magic twirling, living, breathing, constantly evolving and converging within his mind. It is enough to drive a man insane. The magician knows madness. He knows of the candle behind your eyes and he knows how to snuff it out, but he chooses not to do so. The magician knows of the veil that holds your world together. He knows that the world is illusion, but he won’t let you in on that secret. You would not believe him anyway.