At Night- by Franz Kafka

Deeply lost in the night.
Just as one sometimes lowers one’s head to reflect, thus to be utterly lost in the night.
All around people are asleep.
Its just play-acting, an innocent self- deception, that they sleep in houses, in safe beds, under a safe roof, stretched out or curled up on mattresses, in sheets, under blankets; in reality they have flocked together as they had once upon a time and again later in a deserted region, a camp in the open, a countless number of men, an army, a people, under a cold sky on cold earth, collapsed where once they had stood, forehead pressed on the arm, face to the ground, breathing quietly.
And you are watching, are one of the watchmen, you find the next one by brandishing a burning stick from the brushwood pile beside you.
Why are you watching?
Someone must watch, it is said.
Someone must be there.

Europe After the Rain

A dream:
” I am propelled out of a black infinity towards a small circular light on the horizon. An aperture. After a time, I pass through this bright eye and am consumed by the light without.”

“I have absolutely no idea!”
Brendan answered with more than slight irritation, more interested in enjoying his early morning piss into the swan white toilet bowl, than discoursing at length on the topic of philosophy.
“Anyway Gandhi was a degenerate.”
From the bedroom a snort was all that was issued in response.
The issuer, a medium sized pig of indiscernible age, lay on its side on the bed, suckling a cigarette.
“I’ve just always felt… well felt that I should have lived in another time and place, from history I mean” Brendan continued.
”The Spanish Inquisition or Nazi Germany.”

Brendan stared at himself in the mirror above the sink. Touching his face, caressing the dark brown skin of his cheeks, his appearance rejuvenated his spirits. The change had consumed him. He felt the contrast between his body and the white of the wall tiles and sink.
Outside it was raining.
As the first rays of the new sun struck his body Brendan felt indestructible like a panther. He saw himself moving swiftly through the undergrowth of a deep jungle, attacking the genitalia on the carcasses of dead human beings. Later, standing in the shower he began to sing something from Wagner as the high power faucet washed all the pig shit of his body.
Drying off, he thought he heard a voice in the next room.
“What?” he cried angrily.
“We’re out of cigarettes,” answered the pig, more to itself than anyone.
For a long time Brendan was motionless, staring through the bathroom window into the streets below. The rain had finally stopped. He could sense their presence now, all around him. The panthers were getting closer.

Twenty-five stories below him, the people moved like ants on the floor of a vast concrete jungle.

The Church through the Ages

“Idiots!”
“I’ve come across space and time to surround myself with idiots!”
Deep inside his underground layer, the Evil Bastard Archbishop was having a conniption. These words uttered he began to laugh. But it was a sinister laugh, of despair. A laugh rife with sickness and greed. Nero would have masturbated to the sound of this laugh.

His minions, also after a time, began to laugh. Looking up from their sowing machines.

Meanwhile the evil bastard archbishop’s nemesis, the man boy Carl Daily watched cartoons in his parent’s house. Slam! Pow! He beat his massive fists upon the floor and chuckled.

A year passed.

The evil bastard archbishop's despair deepened. It was hard being a man of the cloth. All cloak and dagger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a good shag.
He eyed one of his minions lustfully. The minion in question noticed his glance and returned it with a most innocent of smiles.
“GET BACK TO WORK YOU MORONS!!!!!!” the evil bastard archbishop bellowed.

Because they were morons and they were six.

Inauguration of the Worm ( A True Story. Potentially)

It was after the second mouthful that Michael realized he was drinking piss.
Then nothing, for a time.
He remembered something.
When he was nine some older boys had tricked him into eating shit. He had cried for a week. His father had laughed.

Remission: a state of sleep, a standstill of conditions.

There many people around him in the bar. Some were moving and talking, some seemed motionless. The pieces of a giant clock.
His brain began to thaw. He hoped it was human piss. That was all. Was that too much to ask for, in life? Maybe animal piss was cleaner! But not rat’s piss! Definitely not.
He was sure of that.
Cow’s piss would be the cleanest. All that grass and water.
HE HOPED IT WAS COW’S PISS.
Then confusion for a time. What now? What action could he possibly take? All reaction was absurd.
Anger now. Why him? Who’s piss was it? Was some bastard watching?
A quick glance around the room. No one, not a single person noticed his existence.
HIS FATHER HAD LAUGHED AT HIM.
He had failed.
Act like nothing happened. Don’t tell anyone. He could already hear the laughter. The shrill high pitch of a woman’s laughter.
He would have to leave. Get out fast or get a glass of water!!” For god’s sake do something!!! RAT’S PISS WAS POISONOUS!!!!!!!”
Deep breathes.
Around him the pieces of the clock moved in time, slow and mechanical.
He could order another beer. He didn’t have to leave. Calm now. His mind began to drift and it was of Samson and the great temple that he thought. And then it struck him.

Clarity: the comprehensibility of clear expression, the quality of clear water.

Victory: a resistance is overcome.

He knew what he had to do. He would defeat them all. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alive. This was the best thing that ever happened to him. He was a man.

With a smile on his face, Michael raised the glass to his lips and drank deeply from the well of his dreams as the temple walls came tumbling down around him.