AK-47s are perfect. They never jam, never break.
They also think- it's an accident, an unexpected feature in an otherwise straightforward design.
Unknown to us, AKs sing to one another; auto-arias over cut-price battlefields, love songs in the dusty night.
AK-AK-AK, goes one.
POP-POP, replies another.
When an AK's user dies, another picks it up. AKs never wait long for this. They understand that sooner or later, the songs resume.
AK-47's are innocent. They do not know we breath, think, live. They wish only to sing.