I sat with him for three hours and we did not exchange a single word. At the end he handed me, as he had done before, an envelope with money in it. It would have been much nicer if he had enclosed a greeting or a loving word. I would have been so pleased if he had.
When he says he loves me, it only means he loves me at that particular instant. Like his promises, which he never keeps. Why does he torment me like this, when he could finish it off at once?
I want to be a pretty corpse.
He has so often told me he is madly in love with me, but what does that mean when I haven't had a good word from him in three months?
There is only one thing I want. I would like to be seriously ill, and to hear nothing more about him for at least a week. Why doesn't something happen to me? Why do I have to go through all this? If only I had never set eyes on him!
I am racking my brains to find out why he left without saying goodby to me.
Today I bought two lottery tickets, because I had a feeling that it would be now or never - they were both blanks. So I am not going to be rich after all. Nothing at all to be done about it.
If I had a dog I would not feel so lonely, but I suppose that is asking for too much.
Perhaps he wanted to be alone with Dr. G., who was here, but he should have let me know. At Hoffmann's I felt I was sitting on hot coals, expecting him to arrive every moment.
I am so infinitely happy that he loves me so much, and I pray that it will always be like this. It won't be my fault if he ever stops loving me.
God, I am afraid he won't give me his answer today. If only somebody would help me - it is all so terribly depressing.
I have now reached the happy age of 23. No, happy is not quite the right word. At this particular moment I am certainly not happy.
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