October 15, 2003
Kafka at camp: the lost diaries
July 13, 1897—Every morning I wake up, after wet and uneasy dreams to the same horror, a giant bug crawling up my chest, daring me to kill it. One morning, it speaks to me.
"You cannot smash me," the bug said. "I am you."
I go to Counselor K. He is sick of my complaints, sick of having to be creative with his response.
"Franzie! You're not on trial here," he said. "It's camp for chrissakes. Have fun."
Posted at October 15, 2003 12:38 PM
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