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The nicest person on the outside, the more demons there are on the Inside. I have watched men smile with the tenderness of priests while burying knives beneath your tongue. Civilization is a well-tailored coat. It buttons high against the throat to hide the bite marks. The kindest man in the room is often wrestling wolves no one else can hear. He says, “please,” he opens her door, he remembers her anniversary, birthday, he laughs softly at the correct moments— all while somewhere below the small ribs an ancient furnace consumes his sleep. Do you think goodness is born clean? I think not, No. Goodness is usually forged by a creature acquainted with its opposite. The saint and the criminal share the same cellar. One merely learned how to keep the lantern lit. There are women who smile like warm summer rain because if they stop smiling the whole house of memory catches fire. There are men who become gentle only after discovering how violent they could have been. The world praises pleasant faces. It rewards composure. But the unconscious— ah, the unconscious— keeps its receipts. Every swallowed hatred, every forbidden desire, every humiliation forced underground returns at night wearing the mask of dreams. And so the very nicest people often carry hell with exquisite manners. They apologize too quickly. They forgive too much. They tremble when alone. Inside them lives a courtroom where guilt never sleeps. I do not distrust the darkness. Darkness is honest. It is the man who claims he has none who should concern you most.

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