Love is often unequal; affection always differs. The loving complains of the unloving; the heartfelt bemoans the heartless. Feelings have no reason; life has no cure. Do I believe in happy ending even if I know what the ending is like? It sounds naive if I say I do; it sounds cynical if I say I don't; it sounds even worse if I say I'm indifferent. I believe love's exultation because I know love's overrated exhaustion. Those who work hard for their love are usually too tired to hear the sound of the triumph, too private to sing a public song, too absorbed in the living to do the analyzing. Stop these useless thoughts. There are chores to complete, laundries to fold, dinner to cook, calls to return. Unexamined life is too unworthy; examined life is too worrisome. I have to go, leaving life to the thought of another moment.