Evil is maybe lying to God. Or better, lying to love.
Rats live on no evil star
You must be a poet, a lady of evil luck desiring to be what you are not, longing to be what you can only visit.
Take adultery or theft. Merely sins. It is evil who dines on the soul, stretching out its long bone tongue. It is evil who tweezers my heart, picking out its atomic worms.
But even in a telephone booth evil can seep out of the receiver and we must cover it with a mattress, and then tear it from its roots and bury it, bury it.
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