You transfer all your childhood traumas into your trigger finger, what a rifleman you are. You bellow with such fury, such desolation, that Odin himself ceases his battles in the heavens, to admire a warrior such as yourself. Your might, knows not of it’s limitations, but I am all too aware. You fire shots with seething anger, sometimes upon yourself and I am there to catch the sterling bullets that would otherwise be fatal. I rest my hand upon your shoulder as you screech at the skies, making sure that everything but you, shakes. Days long ago you were only capable of holding on one day at a time and now you bare the weight of the world on your shoulder with ease. I understand the reason for this, but I want you to know that although you are everything you said you would be, you are still my little brother. If your legs should quiver, if your back should ache; I will leave the lights on to guide you home and here you are merely my twin.