Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook

The air perfumed by death was so sad. Forcing herself, the weak one made the effort to be Giver. She then voiced a melodic strain: "Andromeda the maiden of heaven, the one I love more than life, Not seeing your glorious face, deprives the full-moon night of its light."

The soundless listening of the bodies emanated a perfume named Knowing, which oh, emotional fluctuations, disappointment of knaves. Even though they do not know the nature of art, the bodies were ready to join the game to celebrating the emptiness of the Art narrated by dejection and defeat. The bodies allow themselves to be covered by brightly colored drapes knowing perfectly well that it is unbecoming. "Death is should be dressed in black," a body reflects. "But, well, just for tonight." Some of the bodies have frangipanis, the flower of lament (that the living people would not grow in their gardens), tucked above their ears. Some of the bodies are so drawn into the game that they laugh good-naturedly, shaking the liquid in the glass tank that they had to remind one another to be careful. The floral designs of the drapes, which imitate the curves and mounds of the breast, the torso and the limbs of the chilled forms, starts to sing snatches old Thai songs that they recall here and there. And, in order that the celebration doesn't end too soon, we mixed several songs into a medley, from Andromeda the Maiden of Heaven to the A Flower Named Ratree, back in time to the Tribute to Phra Lor and a melodic verse named... never tiring of verses... nostalgic wishes. Late night wind wafted past, fresher and cooler than in that dank hall. Mist, oh, mist, have you stopped breathing? Or has the water ebbed tonight? Then, I shall hurry to bed. Perhaps I might dream of the mist, the errors, and the shame (as a human-being) that lurk within me.