Let me tell you a story. Berlin, in 1924, was a shattered and divided city - no place for a once-optimistic roof tiler like me. It was a foggy February morning, and my entire being had just been destroyed. The love of my life, my heart, my soul; the one reason I had not already placed a gun to my temple and pulled the trigger; the last thing standing between me and utter, irreversible despair and agony - Clarissa - had perished. One minute, she was standing on the seventh floor balcony of an apartment in the slums of Friedrichstrasse, beckoning to me with a slender, gloved hand. The next, she succumbed to food poisoning, and was dead within seconds. I couldn't help but think that this was my fault: perhaps if I had pushed to find a better job, I could have provided less questionable meat to my darling. But there was no use in mourning. It was all over now. I had lost everything I had ever cared about, and now it was time for me to die.
I hope that answered your question.
