Or run an immigration dept (Hint: pull the plug)
Kafka would have loved Mondays in Ottawa — burnt coffee, flickering LEDs, absent-minded bureaucrats drifting through hallways like ghosts waiting for instructions from machines that no longer need to give them.
Kafka would stand in the doorway of some federal cubicle, cigarette smoldering, watching a mid‑level comms staffer — half replaced by automation, wholly replaced by despair — seeking a gleeful moment by preparing to drop a “bathtub crisis” into the national bloodstream.