Kafkaesque

All these faces,
the sets of caricatures,
swimming around.
I, impassive, invisible.

Every hour and moment;
every strand of space and time,
every breath that I take,
it is a riddle.

Everything is pointing,
directing to something.
The final clue,
rests in my self insinuation.

The clue will die,
float up to the surface.
Long after,
the riddle has lost, what it prized.