There was once a famous poet in a land to the far, far east. Now in his twilight years, his ability had withered such that he could no longer craft a single stanza or verse.
The poor poet spent every moment wracked with sorrow for what had been lost—but one day, a monk appeared by his side, gently placed a blade in his hand, and imparted the following words:
"Kill one by this blade for one poem, and two for two in kind; the likes of which will be more splendid than any this world has ever heard."
Clinging to the monk's words, the man waited for the cover of darkness and cut down a man he encountered by the roadside. The following day, he wrote a most beautiful poem, instantly reclaiming the fame and prosperity he had lost.
The poet went on to kill two in succession. He killed one and wrote a poem, then killed again and wrote another, rising to almost dazzling levels of wealth and renown. But soon, he became obsessed with knowing how splendid a poem he might write if he were to kill someone precious to him.
He killed his wife and wrote a poem. He killed his children and wrote a poem for each. He moved through his estate killing everyone there, writing and writing and writing and writing and writing.
Eventually, he killed so many passers-by that the poems could not keep up. He would kill and write, then kill and kill and kill and kill—until in the end he took his own life, no longer crafting poems at all. All that remained was a blade wet with blood.
There was a famous singer living in a city in the far east. However, he was no longer able to sing in his later years. A monk appeared by his side out of nowhere and whispered to the singer: "You should pick up this sword."
"If you kill a single person you’ll be able to sing one song. If you kill two people you will sing two songs. Go ahead and sing some unparalleled songs!" The singer picked up the sword from the monk, hid in the night, and slashed at two bystanders. The next day, the singer can produce beautiful songs, and regained fame and fortune.
Afterwards the singer sang a song for each person he killed, and sang two for every two he killed. He continually attained more fame and fortune. However, his desires could no longer be suppressed. If he killed his most important person, what kind of marvelous song would be produced?
And so the singer killed his wife and sang a song. He killed several of his children and sang multiple songs. He killed everyone in his family and he sang and sang and sang. He killed so many people on the streets that he cannot even sing fast enough. He killed and killed and killed and killed. In the end he didn’t sing anything as he killed himself. All that is left is a blood-stained sword.