I feel time as an immense pain. I always leave everything behind with excessive emotion. The poor rented room where I spent a few months, the table in the provincial hotel where I stayed for six days, even the bleak waiting room at the station where I spent two hours waiting for the train—all of them, the simple things in life, wound me in a metaphysical way when I leave them. And I think, with all the sensitivity of my nerves, that I will never see them or have them again, at least not in that precise and exact moment. An abyss opens in my soul, and a cold breath from the hour of God brushes against my pale face.

Time! The past! [...] What I once was and will never be again! What I once had and will never have again! The dead! The dead who loved me in my childhood. When I evoke them, my soul turns cold, and I feel exiled from all hearts, alone in the night of myself, weeping like a beggar before the barred silence of all doors.

Excerpt from "Libro dell’inquietudine" (The book of Disquiet) by Ferdinando Pessoa