Conditional Reality

Our city was mad for Kafka. Don’t ask why. It isn’t relevant. To show our respect for his work, we proclaimed his birthday to be a civic holiday. On that day each year the citizenry was encouraged to wear cockroach suits. Most did. We walked around town with carapace backs and feelers stuck on our scalps. We greeted each other by touching foreheads. We remembered Kafka’s story, how the guy didn’t use his wings, so we kept ours folded up and tucked away. The sky hung over us, empty and old. Our hearts thumped wildly. We rejected all easy freedoms.