the flesh covers the bone  and they put a mind  in there and sometimes a soul,  and the women break
vases against the walls  and the men drink too  much  and nobody finds the  one  but keep  looking  crawling in and out of beds.  flesh covers  the bone and the  flesh searches  for more than flesh.

there’s no chance  at all:  we are all trapped  by a singular fate.

nobody ever finds the one.

the city dumps fill  the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill

nothing else fills.

bruce springsteen, streets of filadelphia