“I can’t help but think about this. Every time a bird flies over you, every time a black one, you remember your own. You remember their songs that you hate more than anything else. They are just as beautiful... Just as melodic... No, no one sings like that anymore! No one has ever sung like that! They are yours. And you hate them because they have already faded away. Probably, maybe it’s for the best when all the best has already happened to you. When they sing the song once, when they fly by once... You understand that there was already happiness. And it flew away. Forever.”