Перевод малой прозы Франца Кафки

Waking up one morning after a restless sleep, Gregor Zamza found that he was in his bed turned into a terrible insect. Lying on his hard-faced back, he could see him lifting his head, his brown, bulging, belly-shaped abdomen divided by arched scales, at the top of which there was hardly a blanket ready to slip completely. His numerous, poorly thin legs compared to the rest of the body, helplessly swarmed before his eyes. "What happened to me?" He thought. It was not a dream. His room, real, except that it was too small, but an ordinary room, peacefully rested in its four familiar walls. Above the table, where decomposed samples of cloth were spread - Zamza was a traveling salesman, - hung a portrait, which he had recently carved from an illustrated magazine and inserted into a beautiful gilt frame. The portrait depicted a lady in a fur hat and boa, she sat very straight and held out to the viewer a heavy fur clutch, in which her hand completely disappeared. Then Gregor's gaze rushed out of the window, and the cloudy weather-it was audible, as rain drops knocked on the window-sill-led him into a sad mood. "It would be nice to get some sleep and forget all this nonsense," he thought, but it was completely unworkable