Talk:A word with the manager/@comment-1.9.103.178-20150308140155/@comment-80.110.90.222-20151022153050

I think that someone has read The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by austrian poet Rilke. There's a famous melancholy part going like this : "But it hasn't worked out that way, God knows why. My old furniture is rotting away in a barn where I was allowed to store it, and as for myself, yes, dear God, I haven't got a roof over me and it's raining into my eyes." (that's a translation, of course) I may be completely wrong, though, that is just a personal theory.