There is no them. There's only us.

What I mean is... maybe it's only us...

In all our searching, the only thing we've found that makes the emptiness bearable is each other.

We are only here for a little while, and our bodies belong to ourselves and no one else.

We are each of us like our little blue planet, hung in black space, upheld by nothing but our mutual reassurances, our loving lies.

Just remember, we're all in this alone.

We’re all in this together alone.

Each of us is indeed alone.

We only have what we give.

We're all in this together – by ourselves.

[T]he part and the whole, the individual and the cosmos, are what they are only in relation to one another.

With information we are alone; in appreciation we are with all things.

And it came to me then. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment. In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing.

Like a page, we are only legible when opened to one another.