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Now I have expanded my life to accommodate my thoughts about you, and there is hardly a quarter of an hour of my waking time when I haven’t thought about you, and many quarter-hours when I do nothing else.
Franz Kafka, “Letters to Felice” (via
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
The Book of Disquiet