I would never wish true love on anyone, although it’s the only wish there is to wish

Nothing can be more self-destructive and painful than being in love and yet that’s all we desire like zombies thirsty for blood. Everyone is thirsty, but no one is ever satisfied. The infected keep falling into the same traps and the oblivious pretend they know what they are incapable of imagining. What drives us and what kills our drive? Is it all in our culturally imposed perception of life-purpose? Is it a disease? An obsession? Or is it a primordial memory of how we were made?

Could this be means of reassurance for an awareness-baring species, which has already known for hundreds of years it is heading towards extinction?

Or is the universe in fact a hedonistic place of aimless magic?

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