And you of course are chasing a woman with no patience for grand gestures, who views love as something perhaps clinical, to be studied and discarded, until one is found that does not have any glaring flaws, which may be muted and dull but safe. Like love is a carton of eggs, and yours, poor boy, has at least two cracked shells. There are people, hungry people, who would be so thankful for even one, but the rest have the luxury of leaving you there, cold, damaged, until such time as you expire and are discarded.
