The sorry angels choir

This is a short one and is one of my Kafka stories...

Before there was nobody home there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” shouted Kafka from the backroom of a very lonely place that was cooking some kind of doom on a stack of gold that gleamed from its very sharp teeth.

“It’s the sorry-angels violin choir come to play another fascist commercial to appease the bad rats of your mind, to release all you haven’t given-in to for too long, to invite the thriving you desire,” said the sorry-angels choir, hoping the door would open so they could come in and play.

“Can you make me where my face turns into yours and my eyes whisper from your heart, and your fingers pluck my soul, this half of you that I am?” said Kafka from his defeat, on the other side of the door.

“We can’t remember,” said the sorry-angels violin choir beating a hasty retreat back out into the street where they came from.

Kafka closed the door and went back to his doom...

Image from Pixabay