The descent into savagery can be so incremental as to come with nothing but arbitrary boundaries, and our descent becomes like the proverbial frog cooked alive without noticing. When your conscience finally rebels and draws a line in the sand, we know that it is likely to be an arbitrary one, fueled by implicit subterranean forces—despite your best attempts at pseudospeciation, this victim’s face reminds you of a loved one’s; a smell just wafted by that took you back to childhood and reminds you of how life once felt innocent; your anterior cingulate neurons just had breakfast. At such times,
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