The following is the short story by Franz Kafka which provided me with my name.

Read Kafka. A lot. lt is good.

Forthwith, then...

The Anxiety of the Head of the Family

Some say the word "Odradek" is of Slavic origin, on which
basis they try to prove its development. Then again, others believe it stems from German and is only influenced by Slavic. Now the uncertainty of both interpretations justifies our conclusion that neither is correct, particularly since neither helps us to find a meaning for the word.

Naturally no one would get involved in such studies if there were no such thing as a creature named Odradek. At first glance it looks like a flat, stellar spool for thread, and indeed it seems to be covered with thread. However, these can only be odds and ends, old torn threads of the most disparate sorts and colors, knotted together, but also ensnarled. Yet it is not just a spool: a small oblong stick emerges from the middle of the star, and another small stick is joined to the first one at a right angle. With the help of this second stick on one side and a point of the star on the other side, the whole thing can stand erect as if on two legs

One is tempted to believe that this structure used to have some practical form and is merely broken now. But this does not seem to be the case: at least no sign of this can be found. Nowhere can we see hints or breaks that would indicate anything of the sort; the whole thing seems senseless, yet complete in its fashion. No further details, incidentally, can be pinpointed since Odradek is extraordinarily agile and eludes capture.

He lingers by turns in the attic, the staircase, the corridors, the vestibule. Sometimes he remains unseen for months on end; so he must have moved to other houses; but then he inevitably returns to our house. Sometimes when you step through the door and he happens to be leaning on the staircase banister down below, you feel like speaking to him. Naturally you ask him no difficult questions, you simply treat him--his very tininess inveigles you into doing so--like a child.

"What's your name?" you ask him.

"Odradek", he says.

"And where do you live?"

"No permanent residence," he says, laughing. But it is the sort of laughter that can only be produced without lungs. lt sounds fairly like the rustling of fallen leaves. This usually ends the conversation. lncidentally, not even these answers can always be elicited: often he remains dumb for a long time, like the wood he seems to be.

Futilely l wonder what will happen to him. Can he die? Everything that dies has had some kind of goal, some kind of activity, and they have worn it down; but this is not true of Odradek. Might he then someday still roll down the stairs, dragging his threads, at the very feet of my children and children's children? He clearly harms no one; but the idea that he might survive me is almost painful.