Flies buzzed around their
faces. A worker, selling Buddhist statuettes, necklaces, and rosaries,
picked her child up, pulled down his pants, and let him urinate in the
parking lot.
"Love," said the cartoon of the mosquito, "makes up the vernacular
of pop culture. It is innate as a quest. It lances life's old festers
granting a mood of the new. For the male it is a consistent
alternative on nights when the hunt for new females becomes
unsuccessful. Both sexes need to believe that their own physical
attributes will be passed on to posterity. For sociable creatures the
illusion of having a permanent foundation for their lives in marriage
and family is indispensable. So much goes into this ineluctable lure
called love and marriage: most of all a void so enormous that we chip
through other skulls to record the memory of ourselves in that watery
mass called a brain. On overpasses and sidewalks you've noticed those
weak starving dogs with patches of fur missing from their bodies. They
too sniff around other dogs in the hope of confirming and making some
permanent documentation of themselves on those brains.
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