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—and when the moon appears, i hope you look at it, so my eyes can meet yours.

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From early in the morning until now at twilight I had been walking up and down my room.

—June 25, 1914 / Franz Kafka diaries.

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False and true, false in sighing, true in attachment, in trust, in security. Restless heart.

—June 30, 1919 / Franz Kafka diaries.

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Book trade museum. Can't contain myself in the presence of all the books.

—June 29, 1912 / Franz Kafka diaries.

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What are you? I am miserable. I have two little boards screwed against my temples.

—July 4, 1916 / Franz Kafka diaries.

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"Look at you comforting others with the words you wish to hear."

— Rumi

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“First we feel. Then we fall.”

— James Joyce

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“I left not knowing. I keep leaving. I leave, with longing so flawed, I eat even my elusions.”

— Snigdha Koirala, from "longing so flawed"

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“Give me a few days of peace in your arms—I need it terribly. I’m ragged, worn, exhausted. After that I can face the world.”

Henry Miller, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953.

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“The sky flashes. The sea yearns. I myself am hell.”

Ocean Vuong, from "The Last Prom Queen in Antarctica."

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“I gnaw myself. I lose hope. And my mind is burning.”

Oresteia: Agamemnon by Aiskhylos, tr. by Anne Carson.

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“Heal my anxiety, for it flashes from darkness to hope and chews me up inside.”

Oresteia: Agamemnon by Aiskhylos, tr. by Anne Carson.

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“It happens to me frequently. You disappear: Yes and then come back. Moments of death I call them”

Anne Carson, from Autobiography of Red.

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“I love you terribly and I'm suffering terribly.”

— Vladimir Mayakovsky, from a letter featured in "Love in the Heart of Everything;

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“I want to meet you in every place I have loved.”

— Amal El-Mohtar/Max Gladstone, This Is How You Lose the Time War.

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"My hand fits into your hand like it was always supposed to be there.”

— k.b. your hand in mine.

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"I'm tired, can't think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity "

— Franz Kafka