Diaries of Franz Kafka.
... Now all the pieces of the story are running around the world like homeless people, and they chase me, to the opposite side. And that's fine, if I could find the right explanation.
Insomnia, almost complete; tormented by dreams, as if they are clawing at me, like at unyielding material.
All of the coldness of this world was revealed to me, and I have to warm it with a flame, and I’m now only preparing to set out on a search for this flame.
…approximation of an exciting state in which there is no limit to my capabilities, and then I find no rest because of the continuous hum - it oppressively drones within me, but I have no time to appease it. Ultimately, this hum is nothing other than a subdued, restrained harmony; if released into freedom, it has entirely filled me, expanded and again filled me.
This fear is always expressed in the fact that I have on occasion, not at the desk, think up the introductory phrases to what I should write, and they immediately strike me as unsuitable, dry, they fall apart long before the end and with their protrusive fracturing they presage a woeful ending.
It's hard to buck up and at the same time I'm worried. When this afternoon I was lying in bed and someone quickly turned the key in the lock, I felt as if my whole body was in locks, like on a carnival costume, and in short intervals, first here and then there the locks were first clicking shut, and then being released one by one.
A special way of thinking. It is steeped in feelings. Everything, even the most vague, is perceived as a thought.
I hunt for designs. I walk into a room and I see in the corner their whitish interlacement.
Eternal childhood. Again the call of life.