there are many things you could think of while caressing a womens back... many kind, many beautiful things...
but while my hand makes circles, while i write some sort of invicible love letter, kafka slips in my head - kafkas in the penal colony
a story about injustice and torture. a story about a machine which tortures and exectues by carving the sentences on the convict's body.
why have i to remember something that painful? why cant i just enjoy the moment? why do i have to be that weird?