I pick up sand and let it fall through my fingers.

The sensation is like the giddy feeling of infatuation that used to dance across my chest. I think of how her perfume would melt my mind, like I was being accepted into the arms of Mother Nature. I would lay my head on her bosom and, all at once, the fire of existence was extinghuised! I stare out at the ocean now, at waves and air and sun. It is not so grand like I once believed. Purpose is not on the horizon anymore. I do not see it in the stars or in Einstein or van Gogh, not in Jesus or the Buddha. I do not see it in my work, in the universe. Truth has become vacant; it only alludes to her presence. I look at the ocean as I think of this, and the setting sun does not fill me with wonder as it once did. I am hopeless, I am no longer a child, hope has died with her.