In the back of a 1964 comicbook was a picture of Batman, pimped out in an illusionist turban as though he’d become some kind of mystic genie. I felt a little sorry for him having to endure the desperate whims of comicbook creator. As though he was powerful enough to defeat any villain, but helpless against these characters who would put him in ridiculous costumes and situations to keep him relevant and interesting. I merged and contrasted this with my own personal diaries in the background, where I struggled as a boy from another planet trying understand my identity when everyone around me simply wanted me to be normal.