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I find this view profoundly misguided. To weave dark magic and utter curses to harm another is undoubtedly the work of scoundrels. But these street performers endure years of punishing training, weathering rain and bitter winds, all to trade their mastery for a fleeting moment of wonder and a few copper coins to feed their kin. Where is the wickedness in that? When a master painter conjures sprawling mountains and rushing rivers across a blank expanse of silk, or when a storyteller breathes life into the triumphs and tragedies of a hundred souls within a tiny teahouse, are these, too, not acts of "illusion" and "deceit"?