I've come to deliver this loaded gun to the resident of one o one. He asked me if I'd felt the bliss of a mortal lover's dying kiss. "No," was surely my puzzled answer. "I," he said "have loved a dancer with bright green eyes and hair of red, but now her slender pose is dead." To me he wrote, all flecked with tears, a series of letters to pass the years. His heart was torn from out his chest. He knew but naught to love one best. I tried and tired to quell his pain but back he would lament again. So, as you see, I must be through. If a bullet was your heaven you would want a gun too.