“ You are not my sunshine. Sorry. You're more like a gust of arctic wind that bursts in and blows out all the candles when the door cracks open. Richelle E. Goodrich
“ Far rather would she that he were dead! She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing whistle… Virginia Woolf
