You feel the days slipping by, elusive as slippery pink worms, through your fingers, and you wonder what you have for your eighteen years, and you think about how, with difficulty and concentration, you could bring back a day, a day of sun, blue skies and watercoloring by the sea
when kafka wrote "perhaps it isn’t love when i say you are what i love the most-you are the knife i turn inside myself, this is love." and "now i’m even losing my name—it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: yours"