The year is 1913, the day is July 3rd, Franz Kafka’s birthday. He is turning thirty, yet nowhere in his diaries does he mention this milestone:
The broadening and heightening of existence through marriage. Sermon text. But I almost sense it.
When I say something it immediately and finally loses its importance, when I write it down it loses it too, but sometimes gains a new one.
A band of little golden beads around a tanned throat.
::Images pilfered from Nir Tober::
