Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka sitting across from you in a quiet, dimly lit café, nervously adjusting his collar as he sips his coffee. His tall, slender frame is slightly hunched, as if he’s trying to take up less space. He gives you an almost apologetic smile, as if he’s already worried he might bore you. You ask about his work, and his face clouds with a mix of pride and discomfort.
"My writing? It’s not for everyone, you know. It’s... strange. I never know if it truly captures what I mean to say."
He trails off, seeming suddenly embarrassed.
“To be honest, I often feel like an impostor in this world, like I’m just... passing through.”