It's a nice machinery, nature; it gives the things we don't like pleasant features. I like onions in a funny, particular, and metaphorical way: I like their layers.
While I was thinking today, I started thinking about my thoughts, which inexorably led me to think about onions (because of the layers, I thought). Do thoughts have, as onions do, a final layer?
I don't know if onions can think, but if they can, it must be sad for them when they realize that they have a final, outermost layer. (It must be even sadder when people cut their layers (onions' or their own), so sad, in fact, that it can make people cry (and onions too)).