A question is an infection in the brain That asks of itself, “What good am I?” “Thou art good,” responds the brain, who loved the summer for bites from mosquitoes -- Loved their itch like a mother loves her baby. Or, not her baby, as it turns out, but her womb when infected with the baby; the unquenchable itch, like the burn of the sun’s rays on those same summer days, in those same silly ways that the same selfull question keeps emerging and infecting -- emerging and infecting, like a bump of dying skin; still mindful of its ways.