I started by thinking up the most awful things I could, which wasn't particularly difficult. When I had made things as awful as possible I took a run and bounced off the floor and flew away from everything, leaving it all behind me in a deep well. Down there the whole town was burning. Down there Poppolino was padding around in the studio in the dark screaming with loneli-ness. Down there sat the crow saying: it was your fault that I died. And the Unmentionable Thing crawled under the mat.
But I just went on flying.
- Sculptor's Daughter by Tove Jansson
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