An endless Sunday

An endless, dreary Sunday afternoon, an afternoon  swallowing down whole years, its every hour a year. By turns walked despairingly down empty streets and lay quietly on the couch. Occasionally astonished by the leaden, meaningless clouds almost uninterruptedly drifting by. “You are reserved for a great Monday!” Fine, but Sunday will never end.

— Kafka, Diaries (tr. M. Greenberg)

Comments are closed.