.i“ * ^ / . . . . . ` `~

Micheal laid the Kafka biography over his chest. It was no use. It would require a complete renovation from top to bottom and even then the old failing structure would stand. The loudness, the coarseness, the glumness –not outside but within– the coarseness –now laying with eyes toward the cieling from the couch, now inserting change to get on the bus, now descending the stairs to get the mail –“It’s no use.”

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