I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself. - Franz Kafka

Last night I dreamed about you. What happened in detail I can hardly remember, all I know is that we kept merging into one another. I was you, you were me. Finally you somehow caught fire.

And I could never understand why you were insensitive to the sorrow and shame you inflicted on me with your words and judgements – it was as if you didn’t sense your own power. And I certainly made you ill with words; but I knew what I was doing, though it hurt me, but I couldn’t control myself, I couldn’t hold back my words – though I regretted them. But you landed blows with your words and you were clueless – you never pitied anybody, not then, not later – and people were defenceless before you.

There was once a community of scoundrels, that is to say, they were not scoundrels, but ordinary people.