Out beyond the twin peaks of joy and sorrow -- at the furthest reaches of either -- there is a cliff, I think. To call it "unutterable" is to limit and misrepresent it.
The soft and inescapable talons beckon.
A hunger compels the scene.
But does a Big Mac complain or weep or soar as it heads towards a sustaining destination? Does it cringe when there is no place to hide or weep with joy as teeth and tongue approach?
Over the cliff. Done is done.
Let us not speak of love.