Was life nothing more than a storm that constantly washed away what had been there only a moment before, and left behind something barren and unrecognizable?
Arthur GoldenGrief is a most peculiar thing; weโre so helpless in the face of it. Itโs like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.
Arthur Golden