Cupid lets another one fly, misses Monsieur Duchamp's heart by abicycle wheel, but creates a useful hole at the top of his cranium, a window ofopportunity, so to speak to make a man or woman madly dote upon the next live creaturethat he sees. Cupid is now interested in a young woman with unnaturally red hair whose tongue probes Monsieur Duchamp's hole. An odd scene, surely, and a passing mother speeds up, dragging her boy by his lengthening arm. The red woman's tongue touches brain, and a second later, anarrow hits her in the elbow. A small chaos ensues.
Cupid is well pleased and decides to call it anight.
The one broken again when a door fell on it. The one nibbled at, peed on, and licked by a blind, asthmatic dog. I know my hand, the sinister one, the one willing to hold the knife, the one thin like fog, early in March, the one doubting its own existence, even when held against the light. What do I know.