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To be allowed to stroke your hand. Franz Kafka, 1913.

Searching for your eyes, finding them, and dying of joy. Franz Kafka, 1912.

I am always lazy, in the country, in Prague, always, and most of all when I am occupied, for this occupation is no real work, is merely a dog's grateful basking in the sun. Franz Kafka, 1920.

Will happily lie on your sofa and you will read aloud. Franz Kafka, 1922.

A lovely, peaceful, gray Sunday. The canary and I are the only ones awake in the apartment. Franz Kafka, 1915.

How is your work going, my girl? Franz Kafka, 1912.

Why am I not, for example, the happy closet in your room that looks at you when you sit in the armchair or at the desk or lie down or sleep? Franz Kafka, 1920.

Don’t know how to grasp this happiness with words, eyes, hands, and the poor heart, the happiness that you are here and that you belong to me. Franz Kafka, 1920.

Your hand, beloved, so that an equal infinity of beautiful days may come! Franz Kafka, 1913.

Here I am trying to live quietly. A newspaper hardly ever comes my way. Franz Kafka, 1921.

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. Franz Kafka, 1912.

I wish I could look after you. In any case, we both need a rest ; what would be more natural than that we, who both have the same need, should go to the same place? Franz Kafka, 1913.

Wishing you courage and confidence Franz Kafka, 1913.

If I were with you I’m afraid I should never leave you alone — and yet my craving to be alone is continuous — we would both suffer, though of course it would mean a happiness well worth any amount of suffering. Franz Kafka, 1912.

He who signs himself below belongs to you not like an object in your room, but as you would wish it, and forever. Yours, Franz Franz Kafka, 1912.

I kissed the letter for a long time with my eyes closed until it was no longer enough for me and I pressed it completely against my face. Franz Kafka, 1912.

Thinking about you while staring at my butter dish. Franz Kafka, 1916.

The joy of lying on the sofa. Franz Kafka, 1914.