Kafkaesque

I ponder whose hands concertina time. Sometimes my brain wakes up 40 years younger for a few moments I am vital, perfectly formed and a smile for every eye. Other times though, I arrive in the world already clawing at my coffin lid. I'm riding a double-decker London bus, there's a girl beside me and she is rubbing the inside of my thighs while she talks of Kafka. Now I'm in a train, liver-spotted hands trembling, as I myopically read a book about bloody Kafka; I am gonna have to read some of his stuff one day. It’s another morning, and I am hill running with my 10 year old son. Breathless we get to the top he is laughing and I am winded. Now I recall Kafka's book, 'The Metamorphosis', still don't have to read it, I understand perfectly well that the hands of time are always squeezing us into what we were by what we became.