One day your singing in a saloon and blowing peoples' faces off & the next your singing as a mother plucker angel of heaven or hell because you got blasted yourself.
Reminds me of 'No Country for Old Men'. Even though that was Cormac McCarthy, the fact remains even Anton Chigurh, as good at killing as he was, wasn't immune from being fucked up like his protruding arm bone.
I like the story about nature retreating & staying away as man destroys man over glittery trinkets. Then as soon as man is gone, nature resumes as all good things should. Like Jon Anderson sang in Seminole Wind...
"Ever since the days of old
Men would search for wealth untold
They'd dig for silver and for gold
And leave the empty holes."