i went looking for clothes and found books. shuffling past up and down the isles i tried to find exactly what i actually wanted. mr. franz kafka. i had hope and kept up hope, putting on a face of deliberate wandering and interested veneer, but nothing showed. dismay. where was he? i took a wide detour and arrived at the crescent shaped check out desk placed awkwardly in the middle of the store. an ordinary worker moved forward as if alerted by my presence and query-some demeanor, only to stop short and utter nothing. i greeted him. and said with a slight smirk in breathless voice, 'it's quite fitting actually, but i can't seem to find kafka, have you anything by him?'. the little man furrowed his brows and cocked his head back to stammer an answer behind his glasses, 'yyyesss,' he seemed puzzled, 'we should, they're in alphabetical order', as if i was stupid and lazy. i stared intently and smiled in a subdued manner. very polite; extremely methodical. he was now busy consulting his computer and clicking away to notice the elemental human connection shifting from a relationship to an acquaintance. after which he emerged self assured and half poised, stating, 'everything is here'. i was skeptical, and repeated my case, offering the fact of browsing through the shelves, especially the k's, only to not see what i searched for. we proceeded to the location of the designated area. he walked and i strolled. turning the corner of a familiar edge the man immediately stopped, stooped down and crouched low to the floor, reaching to touch a section of the bottom shelf previously unnoticed and entirely overlooked. it was a very unassuming little pocket. i followed suit. 'there are some works', lipped the attendant. 'here', i said, more question than statement. his hands went upon the smooth black covers and creamy colored pages, which offended and greatly agitated me. i thanked him casually and impatiently, remained silent, never blinked. he left. i was glad. and utterly dismayed. how cruelly they have treated my dear franz. even in death he is humiliated. having a boot's eyes view of the world, related to the under-realm. where busy and aimless feet rush past, unaware and uncaring as to who lies below. they shall not know. how can they? when all about their face is the glitz and tinsel display of the best sellers, the fancy names and shmancy titles, of a generation of waste. what greets them there is filth. the gold sleeps inside the hollow. and my dear kafka, stands against the hard dark wood of the rack, pressed into place by thick and thin volumes. his own space merely a few crowded books deep, a handful selection, filled into the shadowed recess of the hall. the black thinly binds facing the outside of the corridor, looking at the thousand other names above and opposite him, while the pages face shut the back of the shelf. silenced, undisturbed. fitting, and appropriate. undoubtedly unintentional. he is smiling. comfortable at home. as in life as in death. i chose the collection into my arms and inside my heart. but the price upon the back. the code of the sellers. the profits of the greedy. the mechanism of the crooks.seared into my head like scars upon scars upon such sacred books. how i wished to unearth his grave, open the casket and throw my money there, the worthless pieces of paper for the infinite treasure i now beheld. alas i paid the nosy nook and went home. when i left i looked up. and i saw painted there, a mural of a cafe landscape, stretching the rail of the place, and seated there, stared a pale faced man, gaunt and youthful, jovially depressed. there, was kafka, looking at me. he said nothing but i understood everything. and i smiled back with my solemn grace. he smoked a pipe and wore a hat. i carried a bag and felt suddenly glad. that is all. go about your day as if things matter one bit.
At my library Mr. Kafka's books are down at the boot level too.
Everything is meaningless
mamaaaaa
just killed a maaan
put a gun against his head
pulled my trigger now he's dead
yes, i had that in mind. body aching all the time.
Paragraphs matter.
i showed you my sizable paragraph. where is yours, sir?