Here, there; back and forth. Franz Kafka writes under limbo, between half-wake and sleep, two states that oppose one another. In the ‘blank day’, his mind is tired, slogged from flat to office. His ‘thoughts of work gradually gain the upper hand over everything else’ and the torment of his sleepless night seems the furthest it can be. The days make sense to Kafka. They are coherent and uniformed. Each day for the last twenty years he has worked in insurance, the same kind, under the same name. It isn’t a position that he enjoys, more one he accepts, see Kafka is a realist, he works feverishly and with little complaint. Any other would petition for acknowledgement, but not Kafka. ‘Such work demands strength’ and when snagged by the excessive tasks of his unrelenting superior, little else manifests in the mind of the businessman. He simply repeats himself, day by day, yes, that’s what he does, see the night is very different, a time in which his prudence is exposed and regular designations fall into metaphor, where the slipperiness of language butters his fall to the obscure. Although for him even the night is not night enough.