In the words of the greatest poets of our century, summer is the season of love. Nobody reads poetry nowadays anyway.
Nobody really loves nowadays.
Mostly, we sort of oscillate between wanting to get laid, getting laid and regretting having married. We read gossip columns in between, of course. These are indeed the question that boggle the human mind. To reiterate my thesis, we do not have time for personal love. And, well, nobody is to blame.