We did not know his name when we stepped into his tricycle. All I know was we’re late, and the other tricycle boy forfeited his chance for some reason I didn’t know. I greeted him in the same fashion, “Tatay,
A.k.a. eleven for August 11. It started after a short walk. Or a semi-long walk. Under the rain, under a beaten umbrella that turns upside down at the huff of a strong wind. I got back to the church carrying
Excuse me, I’ve caught the I Can Only Write One Thing disease. Believe me, it’s bad. The worse. Like trying to squeeze things out of your head but your entire skull is like a dam that won’t open. And as
The weather has reached a point where the atmosphere feels like the sun is pressing down on you and you perpetually cower under feelings of fatigue and irrational tiredness and want to fall asleep. It makes work so hard, because
I am always the first son – the one who says no (quite stubbornly) before finally giving in because conscience starts kicking in like a heavy punch in the gut. I only know two things: none or everything, and most
Love has a post. The week leading to this Saturday was a quiet one. One that sounded like となりの怪物くん’s OST on repeat while I cleaned up delinquent story lines and messy paragraphs, cutting down chunks with a chainsaw and frequently
