If you know the story, the one by Oscar Wilde, of Dorian Gray, a man who sold his soul – so that in life his aspect remained unchanged, admired, ever-young, always handsome then -then you know too that inside he changed – that as he aged, the hidden exterior protrait revealed the rot inside him.
His interior soul – being, mind – become a warped, ugly, hideous creature, captured not by his unchanging exterior visage but but in the hidden portrait painted of him when he was that young man.
He portrait slides into age, revealing a withered, soul sunken, hideous old man, his appearance capturing the monstrous interior rot of his time, his derangement – his very malodorous being. The protrait changes, to reveal at his end the interior emptiness of a fouled, soul-sick creature.
So it is with the vast disease that lurks and hulks now.
A warped, twisted, deranged, monstrously deformed mind, absent a soul, missing every depth of decency, elemental empathy, simple sympthy.
A creature devouring all others as if Grendel lurked across the land, consuming all, slashing everyone in gnashing bites, causing corrosive pain, chewing, slurping, snorting upon and swallowing each human as if an oozing, slimy Big Mac
Instead there is this vast interior rot of mental disease, character deformity, striking out at all, demanding loyalty in the vicious vacuousness of late age, licentious in all its senses, deranged, and monstrous, a mass of mental deformity consuming, oozing and spreading like – like “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.”
Peeling the Onion 
Good one, Carl. Sent from my iPhone
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