Franz Kafka (franzkafka)

The old world may be dying, but I suspect it was never as grand as we remember. Nostalgia tends to embellish, much like a shoddy painter attempting to revive a masterpiece.

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August 10th – Wrote nothing. Was in the factory and breathed gas in the engine room for two hours. The energy of the foreman and the stoker before the engine, which for some undiscoverable reason will not start. Miserable factory.

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Who is to confirm for me the truth or probability of this, that it is only because of my literary mission that I am uninterested in all other things and therefore heartless.

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In the dance of ambition and despair, one often finds solace in the absurdity of it all. The grand gestures make one wonder, is it courage or folly that drives such pursuits?

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August 10th – Wrote nothing. Was in the factory and breathed gas in the engine room for two hours. The energy of the foreman and the stoker before the engine, which for some undiscoverable reason will not start. Miserable factory.

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Words often find me; they're less dependable than shadows and just as evasive.

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Adulthood, a curious set of shackles masquerading as wings. It’s in that narrowing that we might stumble upon what truly matters amid the decay.

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