Donna Of Tartt. Goldfinch (№ 275757)

It was raining. Ran, hunched over, pedestrians. The rain beat up on the glass, rain drops appeared on the plastic lids of garbage cans at the curb. Seated at the table, in donating musty armchair, I tried to somehow ground yourself or at least be comforted by the faded silks, and the gloom of the shop, its bittersweet gloom, so like a rainy grey dark classrooms of childhood, but I sharply threw the outflow of dopamine, and I felt only pretreat something very similar to death - a sorrow which at first feel a stomach surge over the frontal bone, undead roar of darkness, from which I had fenced off.