The battle lines have been drawn, and now we glare at each other with war paint and weapons at the ready. Perhaps it's not so overt. But the hostility is there, the tension strains at nerves and tempers until something has to break. Jarring, abrasive, anachronous, we wait for the final straw to galvanise us into action.

Do you remember the days when it wasn't like this? When we were friendly and open, knowing nothing and judging nothing? Maybe they only existed for me. And we were never so open at the best of times. Anyway, I wouldn't know - back then I lived in my own world. Who's to say I don't still? We know nothing of each others' hearts now - we only see them break. But you had mine, you really did, and when you left you tore away a piece of it with you. And as the blood drips to the floor, let me tell you that if you can see this, you see me as I am.

We're writing our own funeral dirges, we're orchestrating our own demise. Where will this lead us? But for better or worse, I'm with you - even when I can no longer be by your side, I'll always be on your side. I just don't know whether you still want me there.

For whom the bell tolls indeed. Hemingway or Hetfield? Take your pick.