Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
Unhappy, but not unhappy enough.
If there is one question I dread, to which I have never been able to invent a satisfactory reply, it is the question what am I doing.
Where you have nothing, there you should want nothing.
There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
If I had the use of my body, I would throw it out the window.