K as a jew could not stay on the palace grounds in Prague but his sister loved this little house [the blue one] and they rented it on Golden Lane. Every day they would go together and he had a small upstairs room where he wrote; small dormer windows looking over the alley and ceilings low, shaped to the roof, requring me to stoop. The light in the evening of a January day is clear. K was an insurance lawyer who hated his job. Perhaps I should move to Prague and rent a room. Would that make me at least a writer of even the most base kind?
But I could never do this ...
... so I guess i'll go to work again today.
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