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Margaret går med hendene i lomma for å holde dem varme. Hun syns hendene er kaldere på klare dager, for på overskyete dager er skyene som et pledd, som om himmelen har på seg et hvitt ullpledd som holder på varmen.

The person who's gone has no reality anymore, except in thoughts. And once they're gone from thoughts, they actually are completely gone. If I don't think about him, literally, I'm ending his existence.

I too was twenty-five once, and even younger, though I readily concede that for you at this moment it must be hard to imagine. Life, which is now the most painful ordeal conceivable, was happy then, the same life, A cruel kind of joke, you'll agree. Anyway, you're young, make the most of it. Enjoy every second. And on your twenty-fifth birthday, if you want my advice, jump off a fucking bridge. Thanks.

Holding hard, harder, clutching, not letting go. Well, if that's suffering, he thinks, let me suffer. Yes. To love whoever I have left. And if I ever lose someone, let me descend into a futile and prolonged rage, yes, despair, wanting to break things, furniture, appliances, wanting to get into fights, to scream, to walk in front of a bus, yes. Let me suffer, please. To love just these few people, to know myself capable of that, I would suffer every day of my lfe.

The image of that life: how beautiful, how painful, to belive it could after all be possible. For so long it has hurt to much even to think. And now everything hurts so much all the time that to think makes no difference, to think even lends a kind of sweetness to the terrible pain. The life they could have had together.

Attachment, the cause of all suffering, so the Buddhist say. To cling to what you have, what you have had, the life you have known, the handful of people and places you have ever really loved, to cling and not let go. Never relenting, never accepting, becoming all the time more enmeshed, holding harder, loving and hating more.

The realisation that his adulthood, into which he was entering now so definitively, and which would last all the rest of his life, would have to be lived without his father. That he was becoming a person his father would never know.

Crying she said to him: I want you to remember me. Too painful to contemplate. Staring into the sun somehow: agony intense enough to annihilate.

All the good in him, what little there is. Trying to be loved by her. His morality. Principle of his life.

Life is perfect and everlasting until the end of the song.