Disguised since childhood,

haphazardly assembled

from voices and fears and little pleasures,

We come of age as masks.

Our true face never speaks.

Somewhere there must be storehouses

where all these lives are laid away

like suits of armour or old carriages

or clothes hanging limply on the walls.

Maybe all paths lead there,

to the depository of unlived things.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, No One Lives His Life