I think we're all destroying love, just by having to know what it differs from.
And it's all probably a flaw in our nature. A side-effect of procreation.
It is, deceased. Until, like the phoenix, it returns, just to die another time.

Here we are. Where only now is forever.
And I could die without regret.

I'm not sure about love, but I am desperately searching.
And somewhere, where time ends, it begins.
Out of them all, you make me care.
So illusion or not..