How we squander our hours of pain.
How we gaze beyond them into the bitter duration
to see if they have an end. Though they are really our winter-enduring foliage, our dark evergreen,
one season in our inner year.
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.