What is love. A true love. Not a demonic orgy of sexual satisfaction, a twisted longing for absurd rommance, or a manic persuit of a proof of self seized by being loved.

And who can tell, when two strangers meet, know, and then fall in love, or even get married, who can tell what keeps everything going is neither sexual obsession nor temporary infatuation, or merely the attractiveness to the opposite gender, but a total appreciation for each other, a sheer, pure, true love?

She liked him so much and dedicated all she had to him, body & soul. But this innocent love was so strong that no one could possibly take. How ironic, a true love which everyone is looking for made lovers despise each other, hate each other, kill each other, and, at last, themselves. 

She thought he was her king. her sun. her tigher. her entire world. But what he eventually turned out to be was the devil. the enemy. the drug. the venom. the endless nightmare that would never stop huanting her till death.

Do all love in this world has a routine. an inevitable wane. a sealed doom...?

Whether it is true that all the love, plain or strong, is only a torture to each other, and a gradual destory of itself.