And I live with the dead – my mother, my sister, my grandfather, my father … Every day is the same – my friends have stopped coming – their laughter disurbs me, tortures me … my daily walk round the old castle becomes shorter and shorter, it tires me more and more to take walks. The fire in the fireplace is my only friend – the time I spend sitting in front of the fireplace gets longer and longer … at its worst I lean my head against the fireplace overwhelmed by the sudden urge – Kill yourself and then it's all over. Why live? … I light the candle – my huge shadow springs across half the wall, clear up to the ceiling and in the mirror over the fireplace I see the face of my own ghost.

Edvard Munch. 1890. Via