There was a moment where I learned what love felt like. O, what I've come to lose! That memory, rediscovered, pulled tears from my soul like one last wring of a washcloth. I felt the certain grimace and tremble of muscles that would accompany such an effort. It drew drops which I did not know I had left. That's exactly it: there is no end. It’s an infinite well of blood which, no matter the number of bandages applied, always seeps through. It will never stop, but the wound is not the source. The blood flows in the vessels, but it merely flows through those vessels, not from them. The blood is born from the heart. When you weep and howl and beg, with your mouth agape and eyes fixed on the sky, when one tunnels as far as one can tunnel towards the source of all the madness, love is what is found. The pain of grieving is only an indication of love that is lost. The pain of facing death, an indication of love at present. It is the true background of all things, the ocean and the clouds, and pain is only the shimmering dew that trickles its way to the verdant floor.