It’s just that living is an exciting game where the killer can be killed by the same one that he or she killed, because the killer often commits the mistake of not erasing the victim’s stream of thoughts—believe me, in a blink of an eye, our consciousness can betray us, as if one were sleeping with the enemy; this motherfucker is so small, smaller than a cell within us, that we can’t kill him because we would kill us; but even when one can’t be one’s friend, one wants everyone to act like one. 

But definitely at the end, we all, the killer and the killed, have one thing in common: a good heart.