It’s not hard to imagine serious weirdness going down in this shadowy place, decorated as it is in a haute-bohemian Euro-creepy fashion that makes it look like the home of a hip Satanist, or just that of a 51-year-old writer, spiritual explorer, countercultural hero, occasional crossdresser and rock-star whisperer. We keep changing the bulbs, but they won’t turn on.” There was a séance in the backroom, and the place never recovered. “This is the house that can’t be lit,” he says, striding into the green-walled, wood-floored living room of one of the four homes his lucrative comic-book career and intermittent screenwriting work afford him, this one a 130-year-old town house in a wealthy enclave known as “millionaire’s row.” “It swallows light. On this bright early-summer afternoon in his native Glasgow, Morrison has some far more implausible stories to tell, and they might even be true. But he won’t be getting to any of that today. Grant Morrison is, at the moment, on deadline for five comic-book scripts – three Batmans, two Supermans – plus the first draft of a screenplay about heroic dinosaurs fighting rapacious space aliens.
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