Four weddings. And a funeral.

När vi ändå är inne på ämnet. Eller nåt sånt.



. . He was my North. My South. My East and West.
My working week. And my Sunday rest.
My noon. My midnight. My talk. My song.
I thought that love would last for ever. I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one.
Pack up the moon. And dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean. And sweep up the wood.
For nothing now. Can ever come. To any good.

- Saker som får Johanna att gråta. Del 2.