Nothing quite holds up to a rainy day traversing a fantasy of a sort one might have thought one had left behind years ago. Freud to Lear in the 3 caskets: "give up youthful passions, make friends with death!" The Big Other can't hide anymore... we has found the enemy, and they is us!
... and discover ...we are already happy in our own lives, and our best hope... is that someone else is a little happier because we've crossed paths.
It's all so simple... so fucking simple... why are we compelled to play most of our lives in the labyrinth, prey to he Minotaur of our wounded desires?