This is sin. Carving away the full body of God. Whittling down love into an arrow fit for use only at a distance, filed away in its quiver, one among many, making a fine bouquet. As if pain is the way to self. Not knowing that fear, the Great Diminisher, has made me into his archer.
Sin enacts an inner atrophy.
A mitochondrial disorder. Programmed cell death. Yellow spikes inside the soul tearing it to shreds, disabling the metabolism of spiritual reproduction. Evil, however, is not this. Not an accumulation of sin.