How pathetically scanty my self-knowledge is compared with, say, my knowledge of my room. There is no such thing as observation of the inner world, as there is of the outer world.

Once upon a time, there lived a man named Franz Kafka. He was a writer who found himself in a world of absurdity, where life was never quite what it seemed. He wrote stories of strange and surreal situations, where characters often found themselves in impossible predicaments. His work was so unique and bizarre that it still stands out to this day, and his name has become synonymous with the weird and wonderful!