"Boredom," by Siegfried Kracauer

If…one has…the sort of patience specific to legitimate boredom, then one experiences a bliss that is almost unearthly. A landscape appears in which colorful peacocks strut about, and images of people suffused with soul come into view. And look—your own soul is likewise swelling, and in ecstasy you name what you have always lacked: the great passion. Were this passion—which shimmers like a comet—to descend, were it to envelope you, the others, and the world—oh, then boredom would come to an end and everything that exists would be…