I hold the final living piece of me, here, in my hands. There's nothing I wouldn't give, to be alive again. My thoughts are not my own, it seems, I've got someone else's brain. But what am I? If I don't have that? My last remaining piece.
I can understand that. Though the latter allows one to use/be any instrument and thus any artist. Union of pen, makes a writer. Union of weapon, makes a warrior. Union of brush, a painter. Union of mind, a planner (scientist/leader/ferrets desunt)