This isn’t Kafka.

Somewhere around one third of finishing this book, I start losing my shit. My speed decreases. My mind is somewhere else. I hate to think. I stop before reading another page. I keep the book down. Were it Kafka, I could have bought cigarettes and smoked all night. But this isn’t Kafka and I cannot buy anyways. I am kind of stuck. The remaining two third needs to be completed as well. I am not interested in knowing how it ends. Books with endings I hate to read. I hate stories that try to make sense.

Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.

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