black
grey
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Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.

Franz Kafka

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
FRANZ KAFKA

Explanation Myself Understand
I lack nothing. I only needed myself.
FRANZ KAFKA

Myself Need Self Love
Most men are not wicked, They are sleep-walkers, not evil evildoers.
FRANZ KAFKA

Deep Evil Man Walk
We photograph things in order to drive them out of our minds. My stories are a way of shutting my eyes.
FRANZ KAFKA

Eyes Mindset Myself Ourselves Photograph Story
People label themselves with all sorts of adjectives. I can only pronounce myself as ‘nauseatingly miserable beyond repair’.
FRANZ KAFKA

Misery People
In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
FRANZ KAFKA

Life Material Poetry Way Willing Yourself
All language is but a poor translation.
FRANZ KAFKA

Language One Liner Poor
Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.
FRANZ KAFKA

Dream Myself Night Remember Yourself
I am in chains. Don’t touch my chains.
FRANZ KAFKA

Myself Touch
I am dirty, Milena, endlessly dirty, that is why I make such a fuss about cleanliness. None sing as purely as those in deepest hell; it is their singing we take for the singing of angels.
FRANZ KAFKA

Angel Hell Myself Sing
What am I doing here in this endless winter?
FRANZ KAFKA

End Myself Winter
The person I am in the company of my sisters has been entirely different from the person I am in the company of other people. Fearless, powerful, surprising, moved as I otherwise am only when I write.
FRANZ KAFKA

Company Different Fear Myself People Person Powerful Writing
Books are a narcotic.
FRANZ KAFKA

Book One Liner
Just think how many thoughts a blanket smothers while one lies alone in bed, and how many unhappy dreams it keeps warm.
FRANZ KAFKA

Bed Dream Happiness Lie Thinking
All I am is literature, and I am not able or willing to be anything else.
FRANZ KAFKA

Literature Myself Willing
For myself I am too heavy, and for you too light.
FRANZ KAFKA

Light Myself Yourself

Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.

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Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.

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