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When I came to Germany shortly after the 30 year peace, I was immediately taken by the writings of Kafka. The utter futility of the worlds he created gave me a lot of strength to plow through day to day life in Germany. Later I also learned to appreciate more the futility contained in the language itself, sentences from which there is no escape, paragraphs twisted into endless circles, no logical or satisfying way out. I once thought this futility, or rather, this perfectly enclosed description of the futile nature of our existence, was a German thing but now I know it to be universal, it only finds some of the heights of its expression in that part of the world. Beyond the smiling carnival faces, bubbly samba and swinging arses of the Brazilian carnival there are some souls staring into the bottom of a Caiperinha and feeling deeply that Teutonic twang of realisation, that wiff of inevitability, that recognition that the game is being played for us. I have seen these souls in Samarakand, in Sydney, and in Saragossa. It is to you I dedicate this bubbly melody with the flute of futility hidden beneath: