Barbosa

Plato did not say many positive things about imitation, so I hope he would forgive me for writing this “apocryphal” Platonic dialogue.

As in almost all of Plato’s work, a fictionalized Socrates guides us through deep philosophical explorations in the form of dialogos. There are open-ended questions, challenges, and a reciprocal movement of ideas leading toward greater clarity. This style of Socratic dialogue has influenced many writers since Plato’s time—for example, Acastos by Iris Murdoch, and the interludes of Gödel, Escher, Bach by Douglas Hofstadter.

In my own homage, there are indications that the dialogue unfolds in ancient Greece, and other lines which indicate we are in modern times. There are lines where Socrates appears to be fixed in a specific historical moment, and others where he appears more omniscient and ever-present. This is meant to be humorously lighthearted and to balance an otherwise heavy subject. Don’t overthink it.

A number of Plato’s dialogues are named after the main interlocutor who accompanies Socrates. And, in that tradition, I present Barbosa—named after Derek Barbosa, otherwise known as Chino XL. Barbosa committed suicide in July of 2024, and this essay is in honor of his life.

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Scene: — Resting on a grassy hill, in the shadow cast by an olive tree.

Socrates: Tell me, Barbosa, have you ever heard of mana?

Barbosa: Oh yeah, mana is a magical fuel used for spells and special abilities. It’s represented by the blue bar underneath the green health bar. I encountered it recently while playing Final Fantasy VII. But you called me here to converse about philosophy. What does mana have to do with that?

Socrates: Well, my friend, this kind of mana sounds different from what I meant, though not entirely so. And if you are patient with me then I believe we will soon uncover its connection to our passionate love of wisdom. You see, I was referring to an idea which, like your “blue bar”, may be described as a sort of magical-spiritual energy or power. But it could also be compared to creativity or imagination, and it seems to have meant different things in various times and places. And it’s a truly ancient idea—even compared to the place you call “Ancient Greece”! A typical retelling of this term’s original Polynesian meaning goes like this: “Mana in its double aspect of authority and power may be defined as ‘lawful permission delegated by the gods to their human agents and accompanied by the endowment of spiritual power to act on their behalf and in accordance with their revealed will.’” Would you agree this concept is at least related to the one found in your game?

Barbosa: I do not object immediately, my friend, but are these ideas truly related? Or do they just happen to share a name?

Socrates: That is what I hope to illuminate with you, Barbosa. It might be that no single version of this concept will satisfy us, and we will be forced to combine many pieces into one new whole. But I believe there is something real called mana, as well as real people who are especially attuned to it. And I would call such a person a magus. And yet I suspect there is nothing truly magical or supernatural at work here. Can we proceed with our minds open to this possibility?

Barbosa: I am willing to consider this with you, my friend.

Socrates: Very good. So I ask, do you think it is right to say that mana is to a magus what food is to animals and ordinary men? The former is like a fuel for so-called magical activity, while the latter is a fuel for physical activity. Are we in agreement?

Barbosa: Indeed, this seems like a reasonable way to describe mana, at least in its most general form.

Socrates: Then let us also add that, just as it requires effort to acquire, prepare, and consume foods needed for physical activity, it must require some kind of parallel effort to acquire the mana needed for magical activity. This mana is within us and all around us. What is different between one man and another is how much of this resource he has—or in his skills in drawing it up from some invisible reservoir. Perhaps when we watch athletes compete in the sacred games, we are witnessing those who are exceptional at channeling the physical energies of the body. So shouldn’t we believe that other individuals might be similarly gifted in mana—having more of it, having greater mastery of it, or both?

Barbosa: I have yet to be convinced, Socrates. We have ample evidence for the existence of athletes playing games. What is the evidence for these magi? Or are we simply amusing ourselves in a game of our own?

Socrates: We are far from simple amusements, dear Barbosa. I am quite serious that magi do in fact exist. And you will be even more surprised that you yourself will help provide the proof.

Barbosa: How can I help prove your argument if I am not yet convinced, myself?

Socrates: Patience, my friend, we will arrive there soon enough. It seems you still believe that I am being metaphorical—that mana is something to be found in fictions rather than our real lives. I would rather say that calling mana “magical” is the metaphor. And this means that, as a simple symbol points beyond itself towards far more complex ideas, mana as the magical fuel in the game you were playing is an analogy for something real.

Barbosa: I believe I understand your argument. But what is mana, really, if it is more than fictional or supernatural dogma?

Socrates: Ah, this is where our dialogue can lead us—toward the discovery of true mana. And it is neither fictional nor supernatural. I suspect it has to do with phenomena such as poetic inspiration and philosophical reasoning, but its exact nature still escapes me. Now, would you believe that we are using mana right now?

Barbosa: This seems most improbable! In the game I was playing, mana was used in fantastical ways. I was able to throw bolts of magical lightning like Zeus himself! Never in real life have I witnessed something like this. And yet now you claim we are using mana, though bystanders would say we are doing nothing but sitting and exchanging words.

Socrates: True, humbly playing with words is sure to draw less attention than a magical duel. And yet our dialogue sets us apart in ways which are no less dramatic. I should ask, do you see everyone in Athens engaging in philosophy, uncovering mathematical secrets, or creating beautiful works of art?

Barbosa: Hardly, this is almost as rare as seeing a man toss lighting bolts!

Socrates: You joke, but it’s true. Hardly any man or woman in this city seems to have the inclination or capacity for philosophy or these other callings. Yet many do recognize capabilities like speech as at least adjacent to supernatural power. This has been the case since the ancient Egyptians recognized Thoth as the god of both language and magic.

Barbosa: So you are suggesting that my writing is magic performed with mana? Some syllable sorcery?

Socrates: Words are one form of real magic, yes. But many artists, creators, leaders, and certainly philosophers should be considered to belong to the category of magus, as long as we do not take that word too literally. There are those with an unusually strong connection with mana, and we can recognize this by what is created with it. The great mathematicians, poets, and musicians have all used mana to create the works by which they are remembered. I say this because their work is as rare and otherworldly as any magic you have encountered in games. And I think it is mana which is at work in these pursuits. But no fuel can last forever. So, my friend, do you accept that we can’t sit here indefinitely, or else we would inevitably starve ourselves?

Barbosa: Indeed, as much as I enjoy our discussions, there must be a point at which we nourish ourselves so that we may continue these and other activities.

Socrates: Quite so, dear Barbosa. And so I ask you to call to mind a magus—who we agree may more literally be called an artist or philosopher—who does not replenish his well of mana. He would be, as we are now, engaged in an act of creation. But whether it is known to him or not, this creative act is depleting his store of magical energy. What do you suppose will happen to him?

Barbosa: I know not the answer to this, dear Socrates. I have never witnessed such a thing myself. Though I would imagine this magus would, in some sense, be starving himself as if he was fasting from all meals. I suppose he would not be able to keep this up for very long.

Socrates: This is true. As we have said, the magus needs mana like the average person needs food, water, and air. So it seems like we can agree that there is a real, non-supernatural mana which is akin to an energy or power at work in creative, artistic, and philosophical work. And we might choose to include in this definition the idea that mana is associated with both authority and duty. In other words, a magus has a certain authority to lead or inspire others; and, equally, a magus has a duty to use their gift wisely for the common good. My next question concerns this: What are the factors which may deplete or replenish the mana of a magus?

Barbosa: Well, we have already said that it is used up during acts of imagination and creation. So I would think that any work of this type will deplete the mana of a magus. And now I think I’m beginning to understand you, Socrates. I understand why you wished to speak with me, specifically. You must have known that, as a writer and creator of music, I could be considered a magus—a mana user. And I suspect you knew that I would sympathize with your idea that creative work depletes something vital within the creator. Maybe it is more meaningful than we previously knew that we call creativity a “spark” or that we associate passion with fire. This imagery makes mana feel double-edged. Imagine having a ball of fire burning inside of you! That sounds uncomfortable, and most likely dangerous. Is mana a gift? It feels like it could also be a curse—destined to burn the magus from inside-out or outside-in. But it’s strange, this does not make me wish for another life, and I have no plans to give up my art or waste my potential. Even if it costs my life, I’ll always write—even if it kills me.

Socrates: You have correctly found your place in all of this, Barbosa. I thought it wise to include you in this conversation because I suspected that mana has always been profoundly present in your life. Please, if you would, tell me more about the ways in which mana is both your blessing and burden?

Barbosa: I think this blessing-burden duality has to do with how, as I was saying, mana feels like an unstable fuel. There is something about it which yearns and strives; it is not meant to stay in one place. I never create music for fame or material gain—it’s about making a project to release one’s mana, to temporarily calm one’s internal fires so they do not burst forth in a moment of violent self-destruction. I create because I must. Mana is something which demands that I fulfill my purpose to wield it wisely.

Socrates: I see, so you know that you risk depleting your mana, and at the same time risk being destroyed by holding it in. The universe fills you with fire, and there is a danger in both extinguishing it or being consumed by it. So in the first case what do you think happens when a magus runs out of mana?

Barbosa: This is a frightening idea. I do not know, Socrates. However, running out of mana does seem like the brother of one’s biological death—a spiritual death perhaps, though I don’t mean to bring the truly supernatural or magical back into our conversation. Magical mana can remain a metaphor signifying a real, spark-like creative energy—the fuel of conscious creation—at work in philosophy, art, and perhaps some other pursuits. To the extent that mana is like the blue bar in video games, I can say that running out of it is a state of impotence. What a magus creates is an essential part of what makes him special. And if a magus has no fuel for acts of creation, he might question if his life still has any purpose.

Socrates: So mana weighs heavily on the life and wellbeing of a magus. And magi must gracefully balance their relationship to mana—knowing that mismanagement of this fire can be fatal. And what about in the second case, Barbosa? What is it like if a magus is struck by a powerful bolt, but does nothing to release that energy from within himself?

Barbosa: This is equally unpleasant to consider. But it seems simple enough to explain with reference to Icarus and Daedalus. Famously, they flew together on wings constructed with feathers and wax. Daedalus took a “middle path” in which he neither fell into the ocean or got too close to the sun. But Icarus of course flew close to the sun and melted his wings. A magus, in any time or place, would be wise to reflect on these two men. The Icarian path demonstrates the disastrous consequences of taking in too much mana, too quickly, and failing to balance this input with equal output.

Socrates: Ah yes, Icarus. It’s hard to think of someone more suggestive of the idea that a magus is working with forces which threaten to destroy him if he isn’t careful. Perhaps we can get a clearer picture of this if we consider the other part of your characterization of mana. You said that mana can destroy a magus from within, but that once it is externalized through creative acts, it may also destroy the magus from the outside-in. How do you imagine this could occur?

Barbosa: You are full of smiles today, Socrates! Here you are having me contemplate my seemingly predestined destruction. And so I dare say you have answered your own question by asking such a question! You see, my friend, people do not appreciate it when you make them imagine impending doom. So while philosophers and other magi tend to love their societies, their societies do not tend to love philosophers! In fact, there seems to be a conspicuous number of philosophers who were socially cast-out, imprisoned, exiled, excommunicated, tortured, and/or executed. The list is shockingly long, and includes you, your student Plato, as well as your student’s student—Aristotle. On top of these cases, I could add other historical heavy-hitters like Confucius and Cicero. This trend continued with John Dee and Giordano Bruno in the Renaissance, and in my own time with Hannah Arendt, Ai Weiwei, Pussy Riot, and many others. Even the fictional protagonist of Flatland can’t escape this pattern. If I may paraphrase Arthur Schopenhauer, truth is often ridiculed when it is first revealed; then it (or the magus responsible for uncovering it) is violently punished; and finally these first two stages are repressed and people pretend they knew this truth all along.

Socrates: This is tragic and anachronistic, dear Barbosa! In my time, Plato is still just a boy, and the rest of these people you have listed have not even been born yet. But I will trust that you are bringing true news from the future. So you are saying that these creators, artists, and philosophers are proof that mana is channeled into creations, and that in this external form it comes back to somehow consume magi. But you have skipped over the exact means by which this occurs. How can a creation destroy its creator?

Barbosa: First, I think we should acknowledge how powerful mana is. How could it not be as destructive as it is creative? Second, I would state the obvious that many times magi are in the position of confronting the shortcomings of people and societies; they challenge norms and break patterns. These are things which are valuable in the end, but require upheaval in the moment. And the magus, therefore, becomes the emblem of our problems, even when he is our best hope for resolving them. The magus has a lot in common with the scapegoat. And finally, I would compare mana to mania—the one extra letter in the latter makes a big difference, yet there is overlap between the two. In fact, it was Plato who said that “our greatest blessings come to us by way of madness”.

Socrates: I know this quote well, although from my perspective it has not actually been written yet! Can you explain what it means to you?

Barbosa: I’ve always thought it made sense to compare madness to a divine gift, because great ideas come to us in flashes of inspiration—such that it is hard to explain the rational steps which led to them. And in that way it feels like madness, because our own thoughts become foreign and ineffable—we become strangers to ourselves. Something quite similar can be said of mana. Truly, it might be better to imagine it as not being within individual magi, but rather being pervasively present in the entire cosmos. It would then be less like casting lightning from one’s hands, and more like being struck by a bolt from beyond. It is a visitation from something transcendent to the magus. The way Plato tells it, “If anyone comes to the gates of poetry and expects to become an adequate poet by acquiring expert knowledge of the subject without the Muses’ madness, he will fail, and his self-controlled verses will be eclipsed by the poetry of men who have been driven out of their minds.” So when I take part in scribbling omnipotent ridiculousness into the universe, I could be considered both transcriptionist and author. To create something revolutionary requires both a personal greatness and a suprapersonal madness. Given my relative position as a fragile human, is it any wonder why my creations could be powerful enough to destroy me?

Socrates: Ah, so you think mana, like mania, visits the magus, rather than originating from within. So we must reassess our earlier statements. You first referenced the game you were playing, and the way that mana was represented as a resource, a blue bar, that a player could both deplete and renew. There might be some value in that perspective, but it might also reinforce the idea that a magus possesses a calm and patient pool of magical fuel. And this does not seem to do justice to the turbulent nature of mana. Maybe we need a new metaphor. Let’s try this: Mana is like light, while a magus possesses something like a camera sensor which is more powerful than that of the average person. Some magi, then, could be said to have particularly strong, light-sensitive camera sensors and can thereby “capture” more mana. Do you agree this gets us closer to revealing the truth about mana?

Barbosa: I like this analogy. This seems closer to the truth, although harder to understand than the blue bar found in games. As a magus of the musical variety, I’d prefer if your example had included soundwaves being transformed into a song, rather than light being turned into an image. But I see your point.

Socrates: I thought you might feel that way, but I’m glad we are in agreement nonetheless. I would like to add that the magus, in our present analogy, takes on a role which is somewhere between camera and photographer. On one hand, his capacity for creation has to do with his camera—or, in other words his ability to capture or channel light. On the other hand, it matters a great deal what happens with the light as it enters the camera. And I would argue that the photographer is compelled to create the greatest amount of beauty with the smallest amount of light. A truly great artist of this kind must discover the best use of his gift. And so, while we speak of a magus “having” or “running out” of mana, that is simply a shorthand way to say that a magus is attuned with universal mana and has a special gift for channeling it into conscious imaginative acts of creativity.

Barbosa: This is an apt comparison, my friend. Whether we speak of a photographer using light, a musician using sound, or a poet using words, it seems that there is a transformation of some form of energy. And is we want to know what mana really is, this context makes it clear that it is the part of energy with potential value. Value and meaning always live within the minutest units of matter—but these qualities may be amplified when units become systems. To illustrate this, consider that letters like X and L have a small amount of meaning on their own, but when all letters are poetically arranged into words and verses, their meaning is substantially greater. The magus sees possibility in the disorganized dance of particles, and combines these pieces into something beautiful. So, as we’ve been saying, mana is not supernatural. It only seems this way to observers because the magus sees what is normally hidden: the latent perfection in all things. And he knows just how to coax meaningfulness and these other good qualities into actuality. If reality is the combination of the possible and the actual, a magus is simply a person with a special aptitude for seeing how everything is beautiful, and may become more beautiful through artistic combinations and connections. With this in mind, I feel we can better explain some of the gruesome fates of our world’s real magi. It comes down to this: What picture will the photographer create with the light at hand, and what will people of the world think when they see that image?

Socrates: I think I see the intention of your question, but please keep explaining your meaning. You think that the image can be the downfall of the imaginer?

Barbosa: Indeed, and I will once again invoke Plato, in particular his “cave myth” found in The Republic, to show you how this can be the case.

Socrates: That might just be my favorite book—though once again I must admit it will technically not exist until many years after my death. Please do explain how the myth of the cave demonstrates what you are trying to say about mana.

Barbosa: Since you know the story, I will get right to the point. Simply, I would say the portrait of magi we have created so far makes them part of the cave-escaper archetype. As you’ll recall, in Plato’s story, there are prisoners in a cave, and they are watching shadows on a wall—cast by the light of a fire. One of the prisoners escapes the cave, and sees the world in full sunlight for the first time. Going back down into the cave, this prisoner attempts to convince the others that the shadows they see are like images which have been copied and then copied again, and that what is most real is outside the cave. The others, who have lived their whole lives in this cave, dismiss this preposterous and impossible-sounding idea. His ideas are met with hostility and the Plato concludes that any prisoners in this scenario would be likely to kill the cave-escaper. So you see, any of the magi who we’ve spoken of could be compared to this archetypal character. They bring truth, beauty, wisdom, justice, love, and all good things into actuality, and are brutally punished in return.

Socrates: I see this is distressing you. Truly, it is terribly unfair that creators are often treated in this way. So I must ask again, is it really worth it? Why do we not observe more potential magi rejecting that life and pursuing more hedonic ends?

Barbosa: Because, my dear Socrates, they know that suppressing or squandering their mana is the worst fate of all. For a magus, channeling mana into creative acts is the only way to be fully oneself—in the way a river needs to flow. If you dam the river, it will overflow, cease to be a river, and cause catastrophic damage to everything around it. Pursuing one’s deepest calling with uncompromising urgency drains one’s capacity to capture mana and direct it into creative acts—yes. But for most magi this is still the best of their possible fates. I do find each of my available paths distressing in one way or another. I know what I must do, but this is accompanied by a sense of foreboding. We have spoken of the magi who met vicious violent ends. But we should also acknowledge that if a magus is not first devoured by society, then it is the magus who eventually and inevitably finds himself in the position of executioner. These thoughts, throughout my life, have made me keenly aware that I am not even safe in my own skin.

Socrates: What do you mean by this, my friend? Why must a magus tie his own rope?

Barbosa: I say that this is so because it is often the least bad of all possibilities. A magus who has run out of mana is like a broken camera—what is its purpose if it can no longer create images? In the deepest part of me, I know I was meant to write something beautiful and share it with the world. If the world rejects either me or my creations, after I have put my entire life into this course of action, then I have already died in some existential way. A physical death then becomes an escape from meaninglessness.

Socrates: We are teetering on the edge of a bottomless maudlin pit, my friend! I fear that our dialogue is forcing us to reach the darkest of conclusions about the fate of magi.

Barbosa: It’s like we’ve painted ourselves into a haunted corner, then want to ask “Whose brush is this?”

Socrates: Indeed, our dialogue has produced a feeling of paranoia, and it does not bode well for either of us!

Barbosa: Staying positive is harder than it sounds. I lost my spirit in the darkness, I'm trying to get it back—immersed in this space where the righteous and talented person always seems cursed and finishing last.

Socrates: We must attempt to dig ourselves out from this hole. And it seems to me we have still neglected the topic of mana replenishment—which could prove crucial in the fate of a magus. So I wonder, what makes you feel most “full”, Barbosa?

Barbosa: I have a vague sense of the answer, but forgive me answering via negativa: What I feel makes me most empty is that nobody except my daughters ever truly loved me. From that perspective, it seems obvious that love is the primary means by which a magus is reinvigorated.

Socrates: This is an intriguing thought. After all, philosophy is an erotic art—a lifelong pursuit which mirrors the longing of Eros for the Good. Iris Murdoch, who will be born about 2500 years after me and will grow up to be greatly inspired by me and my pupil, Plato, wrote that “Eros is the continuous operation of spiritual energy, desire, intellect, love, as it moves among and responds to particular objects of attention, the force of magnetism and attraction which joins us to the world, making it a better or worse world.” So if philosophy is an outpouring of love into the world, it is natural to think that an equal or greater amount of love must be poured back into the magus. Lacking that, running out of mana does seem like a foregone conclusion. But there are as many shades of love as there are species of animals. Could there be some kind of love which is uniquely suited to this situation?

Barbosa: Quite so, dear friend. One of my contemporaries, Jean Grae, a musician like myself, says “I'll never respect a comment from a novice”. That captures part of the issue, don’t you think? It seems like she’s saying that she desires to be recognized and loved for her creations as a magus, but that it matters greatly who loves her and in what manner.

Socrates: Ah, so can a magus only be replenished by the love of another magus?

Barbosa: I don’t think that is necessarily the case. Instead I would say that a magus is most replenished when receiving the love of someone who can truly see and appreciate them. A comment from a novice won’t have the same impact as loving attention from an expert. Similarly, philosophers and societies are integrated with each other in different degrees. Sometimes, as we’ve said, societies ruthlessly reject magi. Other times, the creations of magi can be superficially integrated into the social fabric. And only in some other cases does a society truly, profoundly, and authentically love their magi. It seems that only in this last case will there be a harmonious balance between the love a magus gives and receives.

Socrates: Loving more perfectly is perhaps the highest goal for which one can reach. It seems, however, that this balance you speak of rarely exists. Magi are punished and exiled and killed, much like the cave-escaper in Plato’s myth. This pattern, by your account, has become archetypal—being repeated and relived by magi from all times and places. We are a long way from a world in which magi are not as doomed as it seems from our discussion so far. However, what if we were to imagine a magus whose purpose was to break this cycle? Any magi could then aspire to this. They would not just change the world in their present moment. Instead, they would change the underlying structures and conditions of all future magi.

Barbosa: Now there’s my optimistic friend! That sounds like a monumental task—perhaps an impossible one. Sometimes things repeat because they must. Lessons need to be learned again and again. How could one magus change the state of things for all and forever?

Socrates: For this I sadly have no answer. But perhaps you could shed some light on smaller actions we can all take to improve the conditions of magi. What if you were to reflect on your own experience in all of this?

Barbosa: Of course there are more manageable tasks that come to mind. Some of these we have already hinted at, at least. For example, if a magus thrives when he is the recipient of true love and admiration, then it is not enough for the average person to passively enjoy the creations of magi. No, it is a call to action: Become someone who can fully appreciate the work of a magus. A sign of harmony and integration between magi and their societies is that everyone close to a magus is elevated to new heights of wisdom, beauty, and all that is good. And this can only take place when a population is completely dedicated to loving their magi. Further, in this same general theme, there should be no reason the stereotype of the starving artist must repeat itself over and over in the actual lives of magi. There is an expression in my time, by a group of musicians called Wu-Tang Clan: “Cash rules everything around me.”

Socrates: I love Wu-Tang Clan.

Barbosa: Of course, and even though C.R.E.A.M. isn’t the whole story, it does point to the truth that people struggle to follow their deepest callings because life demands that we spend a lot of the day concerned with basic survival. Artists, philosophers, and other real-life magi are chronically undervalued and underpaid. So a second course of action would be to find ways to collectively uplift our magi, and make it so that they do not have to sacrifice their personal wellbeing in order to be fully immersed in their creative acts. And finally, I will return to my point about the ways in which the magus plays scapegoat. You see, I use the name Chino XL when I release music, but sometimes I also call myself Poison Pen.

Socrates: The pen is a creative instrument—the wand of a word warlock! What could corrupt its ink?

Barbosa: This is exactly my point, dear friend. If you were to somehow observe a scene from my childhood, you would see my knees loaded with splinters, after I'm pushed down in a cold, dark closet—screaming and kicking… Now I'm the highest risk of sеlf-harm according to most kid statistics. How could I not produce some sorta kinda mental illnеss? Silently suffering in endless, pitch black, dark, cold, total stillness. So, if love can fill a pen with creative ink, it is this kind of hate I experienced that can poison that same ink. Now, a scapegoat is made to symbolize a state of crisis, and killing or sacrificing them becomes symbolic of a resolution. In the same way, the maliciousness in my lyrics is not my own—it is a reflection of maliciousness visited upon me in my early years. So what can one do for me, or for other magi, when you see them writing with a poisoned pen? You become aware that they are merely symbols of widespread wrongdoing—and you work to improve society in those areas instead of killing the messenger.

Socrates: I wish you had not experienced so much pain, and it is noble for you to wish better for others. In this way, I believe we are moving in the right direction. At least we have landed on a note of hope and aspiration. Future magi can now take up the challenge to break this infernal cycle—to bring an illuminating clarity into the world which forever changes the status quo. And we can all participate in raising the conditions for magi in the other ways you have described.

Barbosa: I cannot disagree, and have said myself that you can't heal if you keep pretending nothing is wrong. It is no small thing if our dialogue has diagnosed a problem and brought it to the surface for all to see. But this task is too great for me, my dear Socrates. I will keep going as long as I can, but I feel my mana being depleted faster than it is replenished. So I want to tell all future magi: Don’t give up. You’re never alone. Learn from me and the hell that I’ve been through… And may we all escape the darkness one day.

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Check out this Chino XL playlist, or click on the following link to hear his final posthumous album, Darkness and Other Colors.