Kafka – slightly lost

by tremens

Once they had stood, the foreheads’ watchmen. you find the next one under blankets; in reality they have deserted the region, have camp in the acting, innocent houses, safe beds, under a safe self-deception, that “they sleep brandishing a burning stick towards the open”, a countless number of men. the ground is breathing quietly. and on mattresses, in sheets, under one as when one sometimes lowers one’s head you are watching. you are one of the upon a times and again and later you place a pressure on the arm, a face to the deeply lost night. just flocked together as they had once, on the roof, stretched out or curled up, people are asleep. it’s just a playful sky on the cold earth, collapsed once lost in the night. all around are they watching? someone must watch, it must be you. why are you the brushwood pile. “beside”, it said. someone must be there. to reflect, to be thus utterly: an army, a people, under the cold. [Cut up into 6-word snippets and scrambled randomly:  At Night; Franz Kafka]


The harrow wanted to move back, but one last thing went wrong: his body the wheels were claiming all, but he now bent over the harrow, once more in the original position, although it would not come loose from the needles. Attention came to that he had neglected to look at the latter and could no longer look after to look after the officer, now that body — just as it did in other cases, flowed out in hundreds of streams, not murder, pure and simple. He stretched in unpleasant surprise. The harrow realised that it could not free itself but also failed to work this time. Then the bed was not rolling the body, but breaking up. Its quiet operation had needles. The traveler wanted to reach the inscriber, but now he had a new, even more pit without falling. But while the falling gear been an illusion, he felt as if the officer had wished to attain it. It was a hole. The traveler, by contrast, was also not writing but stabbing, and only in the twelfth hour. blood went to the side, along with the skewered rest of the machine. However,the harrow was already moving upwards impossibly. This was not torture of the upset. Obviously the machine was lifting it, quivering, up into the last gear wheel that had been left the in to stop the whole thing. Its blood streamed out, but it hung mixed with water — the water tubes had of its load, and now remained over his hands at that point. [Cut up into 7-word snippets and scrambled randomly: passage from In The Penal Colony; Franz Kafka] 


You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet. [Franz Kafka]