In the end, love is just a hobby, something to keep you busy during
the summer. Just like building a ship in a bottle: you put such
great care and concern into making sure every piece is in its proper
place. You pay meticulous attention to every tiny detail, trying to
make it as perfect as you know how. And when assembly is finished,
you can cork it and put it on the mantle for everyone to admire. You
feel great about yourself; you've accomplished something real,
something significant. Now whether someone someday comes along and
smashes your little ship in a bottle is irrelevant; it is certainly
that fragile, but it is equally unimportant, not worth the effort it
would take to wreck it. The point is, it is just some useless little
pieces you've sealed off in a bottle. Might as well put them in
there; they certainly won't do any good anywhere else. The world is
no different for it. Even your life remains the same, except you
have something pretty in your office, if you ever have time to
admire it. That is a pretty solid metaphor for love: manipulated
down to the last detail, admirable, significant, hard-earned,
irrelevant, fragile, just a bunch of useless little pieces that
won't do any good anywhere else.