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 of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely.
It is just dawn, daylight: that gray and lonely suspension filled with the peaceful and tentative waking of birds. The air, inbreathed, is like spring water. He breathes deep and slow, feeling with each breath himself diffuse in the natural grayness, becoming one with loneliness and quiet that has never known fury or despair. "that was all i wanted," he thinks, in a quiet and slow amazement. "that was all, for thirty years. That didn't seem to be a whole lot to ask in thirty years.
It was lonely on the hill, and cold. and all you could do was keep going. you could scream, cry, and stamp your feet, but apart from making you feel warmer, it wouldn’t do any good. you could say it was unfair, and that was true, but the universe didn’t care because it didn’t know what fair meant. that was the big problem about being a witch. it was up to you. it was always up to you.