Have you ever spent the better part of a decade
fooling someone into loving the twisted, flawed mass of nerves and dread they molded you into?
They're just words.
Impulses. Receptors firing and churning, reflecting symbols and shapes that sound out syllables, that independently mean nothing
No less obscure than sense, sanity, or direction.
Place is relative,
having is not wanting,
but suffering is the only cardinal absolute.