A man once lived in a small town just south of the biggest city in the world. From his window he could see the lights from the city. He could hear the sounds of the city, smell the smells. He lived there his whole life and thought that the world was like that all over. He started to feel like it was climbing inside of him. Infiltrating his pours, borrowing his mouth, sculpting his bones. Even thought it was painful sometime he lived on and began to expect the pain, to except the pain. There was always a way to inoculate the pain. So, inside the town just south of the city, one night, when the city was inside his guts, trying to break free, he gave up. He let the city make itself at home and he felt his soul drift out. He no longer heard the sounds, smelled the smells or saw the lights. Somehow they had become part of him. His new soul was made of concrete, his eyes of thirty five watt bulbs, his teeth of tiles from the bathroom stall. He was no longer a man, in the traditional sense.
You can live like this he found. It is a common way to live in fact. For some time things became simple. There were other people that had transformed. Perhaps this is what Kafka was writing about. Human beings turning into insects. It was good to be an insect.