Kafka’s Romantic Period

Cryptic triptych, your windows reveal a soul's image
in its fight with light and death. There you have it:
an oversimplified sentence case against evil and 
tradition and spare tires. Have faith! Don't prepare.
It's a way down the road that you must descend
should you wish to ascend to that graphical 
asymptote, so often halo'd by gold. Fry your 
fingers on hot oil griddles as you re-arrange
yucca and the remains of the day: find your 
favorite passage and never walk it again,
that's called being a good person. Work your 
ethic into a frenzy and turn that frenzy into
a billboard for your virtuous down-going,
a tick and a locust and a cockroach, 
the quorum for voting you in. 

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