The screen was opened a crack and yet the crack
only demarcated freedom and the self-imprisonment of the mind for they
climbed around the screen and yet never found that opening that had
allowed them to enter. Then there were rocks with a bit of honey and
flies swarming in it; and himself echoing the mosquito's question on
how the three of them would be making a living. He disparaged himself
by casting that self as a cartoon of a motorcycle taxi driver sitting
sidesaddle with a group waiting patiently in a queue for customers to
arrive. Stationary with time passing amuck, and content with empty and
drowsy space and flies buzzing about his face, his life defied money
and motion. "Get out of the way. If you can't fasten a doorknob take
a broom and sweep up that mess in the back of the restaurant. I don't
know what you are going to do when you get older. You can't even cook.
You can't do anything and even walking you trip over your own shadow,"
said his father. "You should see his cartoons," said Kazem. "The boy
can draw." The cartoon of himself had signed the wedding papers and he
and his cartoon wife were standing near a monk as relatives came by
with bowls of water rinsing their hands.
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