" We were in those years of inexperience when one still thinks with the heart, when one believes unquestioningly in the ideas written down by the philosophers, when one feels as one's own the sweetness of verses sprung forth from happiness, the bitterness of poems wrung from despair. We were in those years when words are born not of emptiness but of the essence of one's being. We were in the years of inexperience, unencumbered by the deathly triviality of life, and so we could speak naively about elevated things, things experience discards because they are as useless and unnecessary as a patch of sky. "

― Гоце Смилевски , Freud's Sister