DIE VERWANDLUNG

The moment was foretold

 It was impossible to distinguish his sweat from the sweltering amniotic heat of the warehouse. The scent of rust which had grown stronger every time he pressed his body against the hard iron had now begun to leak out through every one of his pores. Which one of them was corroding?

in the birth of humanity.

 The walls were covered with paraphernalia. Cave paintings: he could not recall if he had found these pictures somewhere, or if he had produced them himself. Perhaps they had always been there. He was not sure if there was a difference. They figures seemed to carry in the lines of their bodies a prophecy finding its fulfillment in his body.

Gestating in its own womb,

 How long had he been here? Faint recollections from before his seclusion seemed not to belong to him. But he could assign no beginning to his stay in the warehouse.

it ate from the torn tissues

 He trembled as he thought of the breakdown of the human body: damaged muscles rebuilt. All decay built towards something much more powerful, much more dangerous. From every decomposing human form vast amounts of energy seemed to reach him, animating his flesh with an indescribable excitation.

of soft bodies.

 The machinery of the warehouse shuddered. Steam, gas, and electricity converged in the tumorous mass, tendrils of tube and wire shook in rhythm with the heavy breath escaping from vents in the metal. His lungs spasmed as they took in the fumes. The tightness in his chest was a familiar pain.

It was only conceived later,

 Soon, perhaps, his faulty organs would give way to something stronger. The mesh of umbilical piping promised a new world brought nearer every time its embrace broached the boundary of his flesh. But he had not yet managed to materialize it.

at the moment of its birth:

 This place was undisturbed by anyone other than himself. Temple-arches of steel towered high above in this sanctuary forgotten by humanity. The scraping of metal on metal whispered through the air, a choir for the coming age. Baring his skin, he practiced its rites alone, melting into the gears and pivot-joints.

flesh united though rending

 He flexed his leg, studying the curves and angles pushing out against his skin. It ached and twitched in anticipation of the next insertion. The primitive but faithful machinery of his heart pumped faster. Let it build.

and the intimacy of the knife.

 His veins strained under the pressure of his blood, the weight of iron and rust. It wore at the artery walls, threatening to break through them as they continued to swell. He needed a new point of release. The blade cut through and loosened the tensed muscle of his thigh. A rust-filled blood spilled out and sunk into the myriad surfaces below, containing the seeds of a new form of life.