Putoavia enkeleit

Djupsj?backa:
Too much Viita, too much pain.

Lauri Viita:
[reads a poem] Sleep, child, just sleep. The sheep are taken to the fold - the cloud sheep to the fold. The wind circles the house. Odd is the sky, great is the land. The flames flickers restlessly. Slowly goes dark. Somewhere, a rising rhytm beats: Great is the night, odd is the night. Sleep, child, just sleep.

Vanha vihainen mies:
Shut up! People are trying to sleep here!

Helena Viita:
Didn't dad make a second set of windows for here with his own class cutter. And that must be the hat nail he hammered in with just one strike.

Mannerkorpi:
And that is the fireplace where your mother burnt her diaries when Lauri forced her to.