Slow good luck is best. - Halldór Laxness

Night. Two Icelandic Jóns stagger waywardly through a burning city. The learned Grindavíkian is bawling like a child. The farmer from Rein plods silently behind. The fire of Copenhagen is at their heels, driving them on in the direction of Nørreport. The sea of flames turns terrified folk into frantic silhouettes, fleshly phantoms.

Sell the country, bury bones. What else?

No one is so busy that he hasn't the time to dismantle a work of art.