“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.”