And it gets into my blood

His struggle, of a thousand years ago and more, can't compare to hers. His disinterested, aloof guardian attachment versus hers cold, and overinvolved, facing a forever-death-of-the-world war instead of grandiose narcissistic plans toward the same, with him coerced to play no necessarily violent part.

He loves, cherishes, exemplifies the gun as much as he does the manuscript; as predictable as ever, the bullet alongside the pen.

For him, it's a dance, a dual facet. For her, it's not good enough and not even worth considering.

Shania, Shania, Shania...

Any time, now. Just you wait for it - not that you can.