Irodalom

"How perfect is running? This grand delusion of flight? Away from our demons, ever away, until even the self sobs loose, spins lost in our wake.
Perfect, oh yes. And a thing to despise. No distance can win an escape; no speed can outrun this self and all its host of troubles. It's only the sweet exhaustion that follows that we all cherish. An exhaustion so pure it is as close to dying as we can get without actually doing so."

Steven Erikson: The Crippled God, p. 393.

Ennél vidámabbat most nem találtam... :)