The fallen angel of cunning plays fast and loose with his tongue, condemning the world at one moment, extolling the sanctity of life the next. Watch him run his fingers down the supple stem of a flower, snap it in twain, and waltz across a stage garnished with skydwellers’ viscera. Look into the abyss of his heart, and what does one find? A feeling of insecure narcissism, or is it altruistic benevolence?
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