It strikes me profoundly that the world is more often than not a bad and cruel place.
God's creatures who cried themselves to sleep stirred to cry again.
For the writer, the serial killer is, abstractly, an analogue of the imagination's caprices and amorality; the sense that, no matter the dictates and even the wishes of the conscious social self, the life or will or purpose of the imagination is incomprehensible, unpredictable.