Man nesen apmēram nedēļas laikā saplīsa trīs dažādi apavi. Pirmie divi nav pieminēšanas vērti, jo tās bija parastas klikatas, kas mēdz saplīst ļoti ātri, turklāt man jau esot tā lempīgā un briesmīgā lāča gaita, bet trešās kurpes, kurām, man kādu rītu stāvot autobusa pieturā, vienkārši sāka izārdīties zole, turklāt abām kurpēm, bija tādas, par kurām mana mamma teica, ka viņai ir licies, ka šīs kurpes vispār nekad nevarētu saplīst, brīdī, kad tas tomēr notika, es kārtējo reizi savā dzīvē izdzirdēju "es nesaprotu, kas ar tevi ir, bērns", iepriekšējās kurpes bija saplīsušas iepriekšējā vakarā, kad pastaigājos ar suni.

"So what can I do now?" she spoke up a minute later.
"Nothing," I said. "Just think about what comes before words. You owe that to the dead. As time goes on, you'll understand. What lasts, lasts; what doesn't, doesn't. Time solves most things. And what time can't solve, you have to solve yourself. Is that too much to ask?"
"A little," she said, trying to smile.
"Well, of course it is," I said, trying to smile too.
"I doubt that this makes sense to most people. But I think I'm right. People die all the time. Life is a lot more fragile than we think. So you should treat others in a way that leaves no regrets. Fairly, and if posible, sincerely. It's too easy not to make the effort, then weep and wring your hands after the person dies. Personally, I don't buy it."
Yuki leaned against the car door. "But that's real hard, isn't it?" she said.
"Real hard," I said. "But it's worth trying for."

(Haruki Murakami "Dance Dance Dance")