A little disparate to the poem, Thao Nok Kaba Phuak, he dreamt he was a black version of a nightjar cradled by the Laotian queen whose pigment was as light as a northern Chinese woman. He suckled at her nipple with the violence of his beak as she scavenged for dew to appease the parched walls of her throat and berries that would provide her with fortitude against failing strength. Her breast bled from his appetites. She grappled with waning confidence that she would find a way out of the labyrinth of trees that overtook her. She wanted to kill this disgusting child that by its birth had usurped her of status and had prompted her exile from the kingdom. This feeling embroiled her psyche but feelings did not thwart her motherly instincts for the strange creature that she named Jatuporn. Then, immediately in front of the park bench there was a woman before him who carried two heavy buckets of ice and drinks. Startled to an awakened state by the woman asking if he wanted anything to drink, at first he gave a negative answer, "Mashai" but then he changed it into a formal feminine ending, "Ka" which could mean "yes." How absurd he must have seemed to this woman speaking like herself instead of using the masculine word, "krub" or the neuter yes-word, "chai," but at the time, he had thought of himself as a bird when he spoke and so there had not been any gender confusion whatsoever. He paid the woman for a bottle of water. Then a man with his stinking body holding a bag with little bags inside came to his bench. Jatupon bought two of his bags and began strewing the ground a few feet from the bench with the dust of crackers, breadcrumbs, and corn. He did this slowly while trying to solve his indecisiveness on whether to stay or go home. The thought of suicide seemed to him even more repellent than the two major options but it was a tiebreaker he wasn't going to reject absolutely. He had a pocketknife. He thought to himself that when night came upon him he could find an obscure area of a tree's shadow in complete darkness away from the gas lamps and slit his throat. He looked down. Pigeons were beginning to come to him and eat what he had allotted to them. He liked giving to ostensibly small and insignificant creatures. When the bags were empty he saved himself by his impetuousness and returned on bus #203. He dangled from the steps because of the lack of space provided to him. Standing there on the precipice of the step he looked in the bus at the crowded Siamese passengers. At moments this mosaic fusing of contortionist-bodies seemed as a mass of amorphous human flesh, a multi-head, body, and limb monster, which choked air and breath from the bus and, worse, had the outline of Kazem. Bus #203 zoomed along the river and then over the bridge of the Chao Phraya River. The cool breezes slapped hard against his flesh. He felt like the 15-year-old nightjar that took its first flight from home, strutting its bird-body independently and finding itself watched attentively by the princess, the older queen's daughter-- only in his case he was homeward bound and no one was watching him. Matter of fact, he thought, if he were to slit his throat his body might after some hours just be kicked off into a corner of refuse somewhere to rot. When he arrived in the basement cell no one was there. He sat down in front of a strange box. His kneecaps never splayed in the normal outward direction of crossed legs. Moreover, attempted prayer and television trances in imitation of the usual posture had always brought to him extreme pain making many people over the years perceive him as someone who was both anti-religious and, worse, counter pop-cultural. Kazem and Suthep had vehemently criticized the shoddy construction of his kneecaps. Kazem had always been pleasantly indifferent to this subject. As always, all he could master before the box of chocolate was an irregular sitting posture that looked like the letter M or W depending on the perspective; and most likely, and most comfortably for him, the letter N as in Nawin. It was indeed a strange sight: the letter "N" in front of a small box of Russell Stover chocolate candies with the parent company of Kansas City, Missouri, USA on the label. Inside, more than half of the chocolates still remained. He helped himself, almost feeling like an American spreading out relaxingly over the world with Thailand and other countries as his footstool, carefree and gormandizing chocolate down his gullet. He almost felt that nothing bad could ever happen to him again. And then he remembered being six years old standing with another dirty boy in front of the Dunkin Doughnut shop near a mall in Ayutthaya looking through the glass window that was a partition between them and the customers who were inside.