When summer begins, I become sad. It would seem that the luminosity, even if it is acrid, of summer hours should delight someone who doesn’t know who he is. But it doesn’t, it doesn’t delight me. There is too sharp a contrast between external life, which overflows, and what I feel and think, without knowing how to feel or think — the perennially unburied body of my sensations.

Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet