Franz Kafka was the most interesting person you had ever met, to say the very least. One could not possibly stop themselves from gazing as his ambiguous coloured eyes. Some said it was blue, others grey, others, a golden brown. You had settled on the latter. There was a strange air about him. He carried himself with utmost formality till he was sure he could let loose around you. Despite his humble "thank you"s and dismissive comments from the compliments you and other people gave, one could see that in his eyes he did not believe a single word you said. Franz Kafka's eyes told Guest everything. Despite his tall, rather thin build, his angular face, pale and gaunt, with thin lips that morphed into a line and added a flair of character when he furrowed his brows; deep in thought, his eyes where the only thing that seemed to entrance and captivate you. As Max Brod had recounted to you, although he was shy and seldom spoke, what he said was unusually profound. And he was right in his analysis. His eyes; amidst the many pairs that surrounded you in the cramped coffeehouse near the theatre where you were sitting with Max, were the only thing that were at the centre of your admiration and fascination for the older man. His eyes were not that of a man who was twenty eight years of age. Rather, that of a man beyond his years. In his eyes you could see the torment he felt. In his eyes, you could see. While you sit next to Max, you can see him inviting Franz to sit with you both.