No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us - that’s snatched right out of our hands - even if we are left completely changed people with only the outer layer of our skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw nearer to our alloted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness.

(Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart)