You are so persistently looking for love, tasting women's hearts, breaking them piece by piece, like chocolate bars - everything is not the same, everything is not the same. It's too bitter there, it's cloyingly sweet here. Like a child in a store full of all kinds of toys, you look out for your own and can't choose - all are beautiful, all are happy for you, and each one wants to be yours. But you are not interested. Time is running out, they are about to take you home, and you break one after another in rage. But they don't look for love like that. They grow it in themselves. They water carefully, like a flower, they don't touch anything until they understand - the moment has come to give this flower to someone special, yours. They don't look for love, tasting someone else's out of curiosity, trying on someone's soul in a hurry, taking advantage of someone's tenderness on the run. Love is humbly waiting, not afraid of the cold of loneliness, not exchanging for everything that your eyes see, and not breaking other lives. You cannot find the happiness of love, having a selfish little heart in your chest, not ready to give, but only to take - there is simply no place for big happiness...