We’ve managed to slip evolution’s leash now, haven’t we? We can cure any disease, keep even the weakest of us alive, and one fine day perhaps we shall even resurrect the dead, call forth Lazarus from his cave. Do you know what that means? It means that we’re done, that this is as good as we’re going to get.
Treating illnesses is why we became doctors. Treating patients is what makes most doctors miserable.
What is love but a kind of creature waiting to be unbound? A malady. What does it bring any of us but… confusion and bedevilment?