For me, love fills everything. It cannot be desired because it is an end in itself. It cannot betray because it has nothing to do with possession. It cannot be held prisoner because it is a river and will overflow its banks. Anyone who tries to imprison love will cut off the spring that feeds it, and the trapped water will grow stagnant and rank.
But, then, how many of us will be saved the pain of seeing the most important things in our lives disappearing from one moment to the next? I don't just mean people, but our ideas and dreams too: we might survive a day, a week, a few years, but we're all condemned to lose. Our body remains alive, yet sooner or later our soul will receive the moral blow. The perfect crime—for we don't know who murdered our joy, what their motives were, or where the guilty parties are to be found.
Are they aware of what they've done, those nameless guilty parties? I doubt it, because they too—the depressed, the arrogant, the impotent, and the powerful—are the victims of the reality they created.