One morning Gregor Samsa awoke from uneasy dreams to discover that time as he had understood it had disappeared. He hid in his bed as long as he could, hiding from the inevitable confrontation with his family, whose well-being and ontology derived entirely from the iron regularity of Gregor’s habits: the dailiness of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the commute to and from the office, the cross of days upon which his body had been nailed. The sun was stuck in the branches of the tree outside his window; Gregor coughed and closed his eyes against its senseless taps and ticks.