People do crazy things when they are in states of want.  The wanter who utters - or sings - “I want you, I want you, I want you” is past all hope.  He is in the hellish nether regions of lust-gone-wrong and is capable of anything.  Without checks or balances on lust, murder and other extremes sometimes find their ways into the picture.  This singular kind of want, this obsessive kind, leaves no room for the want of anyone else, it leaves no room for the potentially mutual want of its object of desire.  This kind of want is proud, it is churlish, it roars harder, moans louder, digs its nails in deeper than any other want could ever do.  This kind of want wants to win.