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K is for Kafka

I'd not even been in my new place an entire day before I received a postcard from Kafka. 
I'd just gotten back from returning the rental truck when there was a knock at my apartment door. 
I made my way through the confusion of boxes and gave the peephole a quick look.

There was a middle-aged mailman slouching out in the hall.

"Where were you when I was hefting all my books upstairs?" I greeted him. "Better late than never, I guess. I could use some help dragging my futon around that corner, into the bedroom. I'd really appreciate they extra muscle."

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