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K A F K A I wake to find I have become Kafka. I look in the mirror, surprised at how young, how handsome I am. In my eastern European way. My pointed ears. My dark eyes. Even my gauntness becomes me. I sit at a desk and begin a story about a man in a small room waiting for someone to arrive. (It occurs to me that I might be that man.) The door to the apartment building opens. Footsteps ascend five flights of stairs. The bell rings. The man rises to open the door. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. As you can see, I’m not used to being Kafka yet. The character could find himself standing on the other side. Or a cockroach the size of a human scuttling across the floor. Or a young woman from downstairs, desperate to find a reason to go on living. He invites her in and serves her tea. She sits on the floral couch. He sits in the overstuffed chair. All afternoon they consider her anguish. They have such a pleasant time discussing the hollowness of existence, he invites her back tomorrow. Before she leaves, she reaches up and straightens his tie. 4 ...

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