Skumjas ir tik savādas,kad tās uznāk, mēs esam gluži bezspēcīgi. Tās ir kā logs, kas pats no sevis atveras. Istabā kļūst auksti, un mums atliek vienīgi drebināties. Bet ar katru reizi logs atveras šaurāk un aizvien šaurāk, un tad kādu dienu mēs iedomājamies, kur gan tas palicis.

-Arthur Golden

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