She would be expected to take care of them as
their servants had taken care of her and to absolutely inebriate them
against any suffering as if Buddha's attempts at bypassing human
suffering had been an avoidance of it. This would begin in a decade or
so (such a quick passing of time). She would be expected to succumb to
female yearnings-this needing of another to escape the lonely void,
this need to reach out for the silk of human flesh, to consume, to
care, to be intermingled entities in love, and reproduce. And yet she
had been nothing but a little doll that they had shown off and shoved
into a storage room especially when she was dirty or naughty.
And then her bedroom became a limb of a tree and there she was
transforming into an adult female mosquito and he was becoming a male
one. There they both were in complete maturity. He did his dance and
he rubbed his legs so as to attract her with his sound. She was
ceramic in her stiffness. Her skin was ochre like the dead bodies at
the Siriaj Hospital museum sunk into their glass caskets of
formaldehyde. Yet her eyes were lively even though they looked at him
so askance and distant.
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