I really like this paragraph from What if the Dungeon Closes, translated into German then back into English using an online translator:

I described an iron grid-accident, the blocking. I thought of the customers of Marlena, lonesome men, asked itself how they passed. They would listen to old, registered insults in tense apartments. They would become her own donkeys, whip dissatisfied because they always exactly knew where the whip would land. This reminded me of myself, Internet sexual sides warbling, five words missives to Adonises carved from tone lighting, then my falling stomachs movingly and, better remembering, my news extinguishing, my profile extinguishing, new the next day creative.

The original, for comparison:

I pictured an iron grate crashing, locking. I thought about Marlena's clients, lonely men, wondered how they'd get by. They'd listen to stale, recorded insults in cramped apartments. They'd whip their own asses, dissatisfied because they always knew exactly where the whip would land. This reminded me of myself trolling internet sex sites, firing five-word missives to Adonises carved from clay, then grabbing my sagging stomach and thinking better of it, erasing my messages, erasing my profile, creating a new one the following day.