No matter how much I pine, clamber with sweat-slicked palms to that figure in the distant dark - the one I once knew, loved and understood, angel - I can’t seem to decipher the two halves of that one, broken whole. How do those soured men exist all at once, in tandem? How do you compartmentalise the hollow and destructive bad from the rabid, manic good? Why dig the blade in deeper, reader?