Kafka's dream meets Pessoa as a statue: they cannot recognize each other

Kafka coughed and fell asleep.
In his dream he transformed into a cauliflower on stilts,
growing and growing  in a narrow cave , taller and taller, stuck until the rock would give.
It didn't.

Pessoa changed his names and left himself standing next to the edge.
None of his creations grew wings to fly.
He pulled his hat down and fell asleep, sad.

Nothing i write is life, and when i want to be understood,
i am in trouble as deep as dark as lonely as can be.

Nothing i write is life but can hurt and agitate and caress , stop flow,
create a spring or just disturb or bore.

Nothing i write is life but nothing i write is non-authentic.

The best i can do is to laugh about what i write and about myself.

The worst i can do is to take myself serious.

Not to care for myself is stupid though.

Is this world, are we in the hands of a loving God,
are we children of love or of indifference?
We have to choose what to believe,

We have to go where we want to go
and we have to go where we have to go
and we have to go.

I go to sleep.