it was like this. the brain could no longer bear the worries and pains that were imposed on it. it said: "i'm giving up; but if there is anyone else here who is interested in preserving the whole, let him assume part of my burden and it will be alright for a bit.

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.

Nervous states of the worst sort control me without pause. Everything that is not literature bores me and I hate it. I lack all aptitude for family life except, at best, as an observer. I have no family feeling and visitors make me almost feel as though I were maliciously being attacked.

That's how it will be, except that in reality, both today and later, one will stand there with a palpable body and a real head, a real forehead, that is, for smiting on with one's hand.

Just because your doctor has a name for your condition, doesn't mean he knows what it is.

To write prescriptions is easy, but to come to an understanding with people is hard.