‘In you my end unfurls and blooms. Like a great flower of death that grows and smothers as it grows. And so my end grows into the light and my death is born over and over.’
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Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
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Kafka
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