Aurora's fifteen minutes of fame are up. The politicians have left, the maintenance crews are sweeping up the balloons and empty coffee cups. And there, in the morning's paper is a picture of James E. Homes, the mass murderer, sitting in a courtroom, a pasty-faced sad-sack with tangled badly dyed orange hair. And the only response possible is, "Well, now, don't you just look the perfect fool? Last night you were all Dr. Apocalypto. And now? You're just a bad case of bed-head hair."
Thus is it always. Always.
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.