This battle screams aloud and declares its bloody presence a million-million times. On the street, dead lie and wounded fall, in the boardroom, on the factory floor, in the bar at night, the dead gather dust, rot, are forgotten, trodden underfoot. In the home, before the hearth, the wounded bleed, but no swab is offered and no arms bear the suffering to sanctuary and healing.

Always, always present, the two battered heads, crashing together time after time after time in bloody rhythm of despair. Two lifeless skulls, yet breathing, each smashing into the other's grotesque, once-shapely visage.

In the living-room, the wounded lie, their breath rattling through tight, exhausted lungs, as if in genuflective prayer at the shrine of Enmity. And, as they lie, gasp and wait for death, their eyes remain unwavering and fixed upon their foe, each now too weak to fight anew, their self-immolating conflict raging instead through hate-blind, clashing eyes.

In the bedroom, the weary, bloodshot-eyed combatants hold each other in vice-like strangle hold. When, and only when, one renounces their grip on breath and life and dies in anger, will the other realise, for only a fleeting moment, that all the struggle was in vain and, loveless, that same 'survivor' will die in misery and in suicide.

The malevolent word cuts far deeper than the blade, the scornful eye wounds more deeply than the bullet. But words and baleful looks do not suffice, nor quench the blood-thirst of this world, thus is it that Anger bids that bullet and blade be brought forth to sing in atrocious harmony and add to this chorus of malevolence that rings through the tender minds of all who stand and fall upon this bitter, spinning rock.