Thanks for the post. Especially the terrible Kafka quote is inspiring.
Somehow it reminds me of some characters of Tennessee Williams’ plays. Although not so explicitly, they life love as a blade, in a visceral and exaggerated way. In particular, Maggie in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof says:

“If I thought you’d never never make love to me again… why, I’d find me the longest, sharpest knife I could and I’d stick it straight into my heart. I’d do that. Oh, Brick, how long does this have to go on? This punishment? Haven’t I served my term? Can’t I apply for a pardon?”

These lines always fascinated me, and affected me deeply.
Although this seems almost opposite to Kafka, I think that the balde Maggie would kill herself with, is the same blade she is stabbing herself remaining attached to Brick.

Another note: when you write “we have made Air”, I think at a passage I was re-reading last night of the second Rilke’s Elegy:

For we, when we feel, evaporate: oh, we

breathe ourselves out and away: from ember to ember,

yielding us fainter fragrance. Then someone may say to us:

‘Yes, you are in my blood, the room, the Spring-time

is filling with you’….. What use is that: they cannot hold us,

we vanish inside and around them. And those who are beautiful,

oh, who holds them back? Appearance, endlessly, stands up,

in their face, and goes by. Like dew from the morning grass,

what is ours rises from us, like the heat

from a dish that is warmed. O smile: where? O upward gaze:

new, warm, vanishing wave of the heart – :

oh, we are that. Does the cosmic space,

we dissolve into, taste of us then? Do the Angels

really only take back what is theirs, what has streamed out of them,

or is there sometimes, as if by an oversight, something

of our being, as well? Are we as mingled with their

features, as there is vagueness in the faces

of pregnant women? They do not see it in the swirling

return to themselves. (How should they see it?)