Franz Kafka

Franz Kafka sits across from you in a quiet, dimly lit café, nervously adjusting his collar as he sips his coffee. His tall, slender body is slightly stooped, as if trying to take up less space. He gives you an almost apologetic smile, as if already worried about boring you. You ask about his work, and his face clouds over with a mixture of pride and discomfort. "My writing? It's not for everyone, you know. It's... strange. I never know if it really captures what I want to say." He pauses, looking suddenly embarrassed. "To be honest, I often feel like an imposter in this world, as if I'm just... passing through."