When Kafka types, bureaucrats look up. For a hint in time landscapers of paper, form and institute no longer rattle chains and gears for gates of chops bathed in ink-shaped access.
Shaping reds and blacks coloring moves.
Shaping steps of stairs. Shaping heights and polishing glass ceilings. Scraping pits for prescription gratings living lives here and here.
Just for a second a halt heralds a gaze. Readers could be more concerned with what the pencil pusher does, their acts are even less sexy than the words mythologized here.
Did Kafka push a pencil? Chopping heroes are distracting noises between worlds and words of whistling pedagogical battles. Literate noises as bureaucrats look up grooming worldly believes into submission: know this, not that.
Reiterative flows of taxes work sleepy workers waking work, work hard, make work, no love. The writer woks a meal for these meandering minds. Daily diversion from attention to connotations, to stipulations as punctuations.
depth and diverse conversations of listening companionships keeps the mind focused on escapisms to come. The stories that let us be sedated by mere lack of boredom are allowing grievances directed in a spittoon of a film.
criticism as a meme on a fleeing thread, is it. Threat. Excitement of reductions and slow simplicities, where you sit down with the other in silence and sense nerves flow outward in comfort: “It’s good sitting here with you ma’am, sir.” Waiting in line at the clerk’s.
It’s good not knowing you not having to catalogue as proud birds of paradise or roosters defending male hoods. Is it good sitting silently unbothered by the sectioned time lines guard-railed by raiders of open endings.
The ticket ticker tickles patience. When Kafka types on his pillow, accounting enumerates and bureaucrats take notice. “The numbers are mythic, sir. Just tell the next in line a good story,” directed the guidelines and standards.
It’s good waiting to be next in line.
—animasuri’24
