It was 2 a.m. and the mosquito came into the scenes of his REM
with wings piercing through and dominating over every brief episodic
nightmare. It was wearing an orange monk's robe and superciliously
imposed its own presence on all scenes that Jatupon alone was supposed
to rehearse. It altered a script that Jatupon's brain had conjured in
the hope of figuring out how to interact with his environment and live
with himself harmoniously. Initially his sleep consisted of nascent
dream-roles to find out if feigning a serious illness would have
altered his parents' journey of early demise. Later there were others
such as trying to persuade the fetid one's Chinese girlfriend to buy
him a white shirt and necktie so that he could apply at the Bangkok
Metropolitan Transportation Department and thereby resurrect himself as
an economic deliverer and a masculine force to be admired instead of
dog excrement on his brothers' heels that he perceived them as
perceiving him to be. There were also briefer skits in the random
feelings, thoughts, and perceptions he was trying to categorize. One
was of trying to successfully bite his shirt to stop himself from
crying out when Kazem's riveting night sports were too painful and
another one was of attempting to remember the few neighborhoods and
streets of Bangkok that he had learnt in past visits and perhaps link
them to various names that only sleep could recall. Throughout it all
was the buzz of the mosquito. This insect-monk buzzed no differently
than a bee.
"And where were you today and yesterday?" it asked.
"I didn't get out the glue and there were no pills to pop."
"Why didn't you get out the glue?"
"I want to do this for fun. I want these trips to stay what they
call "recreational." I'll take them only when I need out. I don't
want to be an addict."