Write to me
only once a week, so that your letter arrives on Sunday –
for I cannot endure your daily letters, I am incapable of
enduring them. For instance, I answer one of your letters, then
lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire
body and is conscious only of you. I belong to you; there is
really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong
enough. But for this very reason I don’t want to know what
you are wearing; it confuses me so much that I cannot deal with
life; and that’s why I don’t want to know that you
are fond of me. If I did, how could I, fool that I am, go on
sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a
train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with
you? —Franz Kafka
