Thanks. (I have my version, early on.)

Cured me of ever "hunting" any creature save for abject survival: a need I have escaped, via the happenstance of birth locale. I just then felt that nexus of reasons why killing for trophies?
diseased ego + idiot hormones? could really Fuck-Up a psyche. (But I didn't know those words then ..well, likely one of them..)

The al punte poem reminds why I never begrudge the time to take a spider outside. And cringe when Dyson owners speak of how handy the infernal machine is for: that instant disposal,
a tribal fetish I guess. Added to personal list: Deplorables.