So, what did we learn today?

Lesson one: Magic is real. Lesson two: Tazers kinda suck. Lesson three: bullets fucking hurt.

I keep expecting myself to wake up from this whole situation like it was a bad dream. Well-dressed dude with a tattoo, made out of like... who knows what. Could take bullets way better than I could. Did I mention that those things hurt?

Because they do. They fucking hurt. Especially when running. And when being jostled in a car by an insane frat-bro.

Some fancy pocketwatch with little glowing jewels that could turn back time up to three times in a span of 24 hours. We were tasked with getting it from him, one way or another. Didn't kill him anyways. 

Christ, is that right? Someone died a few days ago. And I'm responsible for that. I mean, I didn't pull the trigger. But still, I lead to someone's death. He probably realized that bullets fuckin' hurt right at the last moment, too, huh? Or not, maybe it didn't feel like much of anything. Just a bang and then nothing. Yikes.

This is probably something I should paint, right? No, not the bullets hurting thing, but the timepeice thing. Magic being real, all of that. And what? Now I'm supposed to be part magic now? Given a reward for dealing with some crazy shit and now... now I get to do crazy shit back.

I've only ever been a petty criminal. Nothing like killing a goddamn cop. Vandalism is a far cry from whatever the hell just happened in Europe. 

I don't know, I just wanted to make great art. I hope this is all worth it. If I really think about it, I already feel... smarter? Sharper? Different. Just different. Ideas and inspiration seems to come quicker now. It takes me half the time to sketch an idea than it did before I shook that guy's hand. I can only imagine what that's going to mean for my art when I get in front of a canvas.

Alright. Okay. Fine. The dude was right. I guess I'm magic now. It's cool, but it's also... a pain in the ass.

For whatever reason, I'm now having to deal with hordes of fans constantly after my autograph or my picture or whatever the heck else. Even people who've never heard of me before approach me like we've always been great friends. And what am I supposed to do? Brush them off?! Hell no! This is the most successful that I've been like... ever. 

Doesn't make it any less of a pain in the ass.  

Imagine, one day I'm spraypainting concrete walls behind 7/11 and stenciling beat-up billboards thinking that no one gives a single solitary shit, and now I learn that people have been wondering who I am for a real long time. Something about feeling inspired by my "edgy" messages. C'mon, edgy? I'm not that edgy. Okay, maybe I'm a little bit edgy, but not more than anyone else my age.

Though, I've gotta say, the number of times people have thought my work was Banksy's... And now people are convinced that I'm Banksy... and I'm apparently just derivitive of Banksy...

Alright, come the hell on now. Not every motherfucker with a paint can and a stencil is Banksy. I've got much more interesting themes than them. And I use tons of colors, not just black and red! Even though I like using stencils, I love flowing free-form work just as much.

And now, I'm known for it all, I guess. The price of fame, huh?

Something about finishing that job... changed me, too.

All of a sudden, I can lie about even petty things and people don't even question me. "What did you have for dinner last night,"

"Oh, you know, foie gras."

"Oh, cool, where'd you get that?"

...

Like it's nothing. Not a thing.

It gets even stranger, too. 

I've started to... see people differently. They walk past me and I see a glimpse of something below the surface. Something beneath the public mask that they wear. I can take a single look at them and see them as a work of art. Layers of paint on a human canvas. What makes them tick. What makes them happy and what makes them sad. It's just all there, just as the world has always meant to see it.

Deep man. Hella deep.