One night I dreamt of a short stay in hell.
It was not as quaint as they make it sound.
I was seated next to Kafka in a sterile, grey room.
All was silence except for the beehive they kept inside the fluorescent lights above my head.
(Every-once-in-awhile, buttons to be pushed, pencils to be sharpened, papers to be shuffled.)
The devil would pop in once every hour, look at me over his spectacles, write something on his clipboard and leave abruptly.
I looked down the hall into an endless corridor of filing cabinets.
Escape?
Out of the question.
I have bills to pay.
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