portrait to share with anyone. It borders on prostitution. Just when
I was feeling sorry for you as the abused brother I learned of this.
It adds a more complex intellectual dimension to your character, don't
you think? It makes you less moronic somehow." Jatupon felt a
metamorphosis and returned to his 14 year old body. Again he was
riding on the mosquito's back naked as a blue jay and his hair dripped
water. He couldn't confirm or negate the previous memory. It was
vaguely familiar.
"Don't you believe that was you?"
"It doesn't matter," Jatupon said indifferently.
"You don't think so?"
"No it's not, is it?" He began to choke on his saliva. He
coughed. "Why?"
"Oh, dear. Are you okay?"
"Yes. Why?"
Why what?"
"Why is the self such a fearful place?"
"Why not?" said the mosquito. "Alone, shut up in one's own
hardened shell there is no logic--just passions running amuck."
Tragedy and suicidal wishes clogged up his head. He did not like
seeing bits of himself crawling around naked as a baby's ass. He hated
wondering if any of his brothers would come back to the apartment or
fearing having to beg alone. He got up.
"Did you decide to finally go back to your mamma?" asked the man
who had the woman resting her face in his lap. The woman picked a wild
dandelion from the crack in the sidewalk and then reached her hand up
to Jatupon's shirt. She put it in his pocket. "Here is a flower for
Mommy. You can give it to her when she fixes you supper."
"My mother's dead" yelled Jatupon with vehement hate and
repugnance as he wadded up the flower in a fist and threw it onto the