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The traveler, however, was alarmed; the machine was obviously falling to pieces; its tranquil operation was deceptive. He felt he had to look after the officer, since he could no longer take care of himself. But while the tumbling cogwheels had monopolized his attention, he had failed to observe the rest of the machine. Now, however, when, after the final gear had left the draftsman, he bent over the harrow, he had a new and even harsher surprise. The harrow was not writing, it was only pricking, and the bed was not rolling the body, it was only lifting it, quivering, against the needles. The traveler wanted to do something, perhaps stop the machine: this was no torture, such as the officer was aiming for, it was full-blown murder. The traveler stretched out his hands. But the harrow with the forked-up body was already turning aside, which it normally did only in the twelfth hour. The blood flowed in a hundred streams—not mingled with water; the small water pipes had likewise failed this time. And now the very last element failed: the body did not separate from the long needles, it poured out its blood but dangled over the pit without dropping. The harrow was about to return to its old position, but as if noticing that it had not yet freed itself of its burden, it remained above the pit.

— In the Penal Colony by Franz Kafka