In one's endless search for love, one always and only uncovers a deeper loneliness.
Only when one is alone is she able to discover where the capacity to love may lie.
Put into practice, it is a deception of the most heinous type where to love another person is just another form of self love, or part of the endless attempt to murder and to bury the loathing of one's self.
So our bodies keep bumping into one another, moving, crashing, falling, rising in the eternal vain attempt to find a meaning to what is forever void of meaning.
And our intellectual murmurs fall effortlessly to the ground, to be trampled over by our own going back and forth.