"...[T]herefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper's trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse you ache."
(Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes From the Underground).
And one that comes drifting down from the ceiling:
(Hu Ming, The End of Colorful Clouds, 2000).
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