Imbentori: Personal Truths & Dreams

Last Update:

Status: ON-GOING

It may or may not have been obvious, but people my age like to express themselves on the internet.

I was active on Tumblr, that you can still visit:


A little while back, I even thought of parsing through the original text I have there, and publish them in some sort of a book…

I’m not throwing this idea permanently away. It’s just that I have more interesting things to tackle, in my opinion.

In the meantime, read the preface I drafted some time ago for this would-be collection of personal essays.

Table of Contents


The tongue that swirls with its perceived languages can only cope so much from the demands of diction. Imbentori, then, attempts to speak the library of tensions as they never unfold in the mind, to glue incoherent rants with in/formal grammar & syntax to make it sound ir/rational. It is a list of personal truths told with cryptic lingo (or with International Art English1, one could argue) to add dimension to the mundane.

I wanted to tell stories, fiction or otherwise, that had shaped me definitively. In some entries, though, there’s no room for interpretation. In any case, if you feel like the stream of thoughts challenge the way you read, hmm, then it’s purpose didn’t go off tangent.

“Which is what, exactly?” I hear you ask.

“Well,” I mutter, racking my brain for proper wording. “The intention of sharing this version of my Youth—captured between 2012 and 2018—is to offer a perspective of someone who both despises the world, yet remains hopeful of the people’s capacity to kick-start a change, although they bore me at that.” And then you plop back on your chair, still unsatisfied with my ambiguous response.

You will notice quirks. One of the most notable was how I refuse to capitalize letters that needed capitalization. It’s style; you’ll get over it.

It’s tempting to edit away all the cringe parts, but I think those parts are what makes this body of work, if you can call it that, unique. Right now, I’ll compromise by trimming some of the bad stuff.

If everything sounds strange, it’s because I had been in this odd phase.

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There’s a free copy online

Most of them are lumped into what I call Unscholarly Notes, after a chapter in one of my favorite books by F. Sionil Jose.

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Selected Entries

The following are the entries that I like, with slight edits.

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Entry # 1

Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013

Someone called me on the phone, but I didn’t hear it immediately, because I was too absorbed on the gyrating sound waves coming out of the speakers. My music, Queen, was too loud, and the speakers are of the modern tech, so that they don’t do that magical feedback every time a call or a text comes in my phone.

You all know that, right? A few years back, speakers screech when a phone nearby would receive something. Nowadays, they don’t. They have killed the magic.

I picked up the phone. The voice at the other end was raspy but clear. It was one of the mistresses of the former landlord of the community where I live in now. She said she was coming to pick up some of her old clothes and to drop a few other things.

There are visitors who seemed wanting to stay, but I can’t allow that. I want to be at my own now, see what will happen. If she comes, and she stays, and she waits for the landlord, the two of them will lock themselves in their old room where they will make love for the rest of the day. Why can’t they just leave me in peace?

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Entry # 2

Date: Wed, 30 Oct 2013

Dear diary, today I watched more videos of people fucking each other. I think it’s called pornography or erotica, but it depends on the grade of steam which confutes any discrepancy between the two.

These people surprised me with their whines. I don’t get it. Am I supposed to touch my genitals just to emulate what they were experiencing? There was an order of preference that I have read somewhere, but my not remembering when and where I found such an article proves how sleazy can I be. What I know is that, I must do it with one or more persons, but with whom?

I clicked on a panel that played a video of two girls shamed by an “ex-convict” on an absurd level, and he got to ram his penis down their throats for more than four minutes. It was moving like a piston. I felt nervous for these people who have nothing but their blessed bodies. Maybe this isn’t entertainment but something inhumane that feeds off the carnal desires. If I must really think about it, I suppose it was not their choice to participate in such a graphic scenario.

Sex workers puzzle me. I know I have no right to question their deeds, but still, the nature of their work is beyond my comprehension. I feel so dumb saying that.

Dear diary, I am lonely. I want to fight off the urge. I want to spend the rest of the week cuddling in someone’s arms. I don’t need to take cold baths, because life isn’t a big porcelain bath tub, nor a playlist of fetishes.

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Entry # 3

Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013

On moments that I look out of the window, I see the glorious sky. Everything is modernized. Everything looks hopeful, yet ugly, but only if you looked long enough to see the details. 

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Entry # 4

Date: Thu, 31 Oct 2013

I wish I could cough up wonderful lyrics and come up with good guitar chords to go with it. 

I wish to do a thousand tough push-ups for every mistake I make. That way, I would be strong enough to endure future errors.

I wish to rebuild the walls I destroyed in order to get here, but it seems that it’s all too late now. Someone out there knows why.

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Entry # 5

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

People from the suburbs have vacated the other room. It is free from dirt now. They have also cleaned it. Got rid of the pests that might want to scurry about the floor. I am glad the room is all mine now.

The room lacks decorations and soft pillows. It would echo in here. It lacks inspiration, but it has me now. And now, I have it.

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Entry # 6

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

Kill me not with admiration, and tell me I am the best person to have entered your life ever. My guitar strings ache to be strummed, my boxes of mementos long to be remembered, but I don’t care about them. I care about you.

You who have brought yourself to your own knees. You whose ponytail I held in place just so you could mourn and bow down before me. I could set up a room for the two of us where we could strangle the milk of life out of each other, but you chose to be free. And to be honest, that was your only option.

You chose to be with your cats and your boy friends. I had nothing to do with them, so I, in turn, chose to set you free, even if I wanted otherwise.

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Entry # 7

Date: Fri, 01 Nov 2013

My grandfather, who looked like Quezon, once belonged to a guerrilla force. They lived in the mountain side, just like any other rebellion at the time. They boiled unripe corncobs and cow bones they stole from the farms nearby for lunch. They were outlaws. They wanted to throw the Japanese out of the country, only that they failed to do so.

Theirs were the stories of war against alien adversaries who were more powerful. They were simpletons turned militia who knew only a few things about war. If they wanted so bad to be an active threat to their opponents, they could have constructed at least one smart plot. But they preferred to be cowards hidden behind ferns and rocks.

He died at the age of 80. Everybody prayed their own versions of lamentations at his funeral. I was not there. I did not even see him during his last moments, so damn me now. 

My mother regularly reminds us of her admiration for her father. In her own words, he was the greatest man who lived. She told me how her mother wept during the funeral, so much so that they laughed at her, saying she was over-reacting.

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Entry # 8

Date: Sat, 02 Nov 2013

To the brother whose downfall is inevitable,

Your woman talked to me the other night, but I was not listening carefully. Did she say that you were destroyed by an old lady? That you broke into tears inside a taxi, because none of your schemes worked out?

Old hags do tend to cause that. Sometimes, they are too old for emotions that they can’t even handle themselves. They resort to a so-called systematic deity whom they worship as much as they worship their laundry. It is all helpless now.

For you and for her, the old widow.

The sparrows will soon take her and all of her possessions away. The last air she will breathe looms nigh before her.

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Entry # 9

Date: Sun, 03 Nov 2013

I can’t promise not to be so anxious about the impermeability of jagged things here in this wanton city, here in this side of the world. I can lock myself up in a room with venomous dingoes and snapping Venus flytraps, but tell me, can I really lock myself up in a room with deranged weirdos? I cannot be the spark of some other lame people’s thoughts. I, too, am suffering. I cannot be of some help to others, sorry about that.

Some other night, I was not thinking straight again. I think I was capable of horrendous crimes that time. So instead of losing it, I got myself jacked in the computer and played all of the piano concertos repetitively, until I came back to my senses, and everything seemed wonderful again.

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Entry # 10

Date: Mon, 04 Nov 2013

Let it sit there in the mellow light. And let it be clear to you that it is not yours, that thing. This is not a race that you could just break into a run like you are going to make it to the finish line. If you run now, you will not make it. The finish line is only a perceived idea through which we wish to project the kind of reality we wanted, the goals we wish to get.

So hear me out on this, and just let the thing sit by itself. It is safely locked in here. The room is all so-and-so-proof—nothing goes in or out. Entirely vacuum sealed.

Now, step out of the room and close the door behind you.


Listen to me. It is the pride in us that will bleed us to death. You are not owned by your pride. And you need to rack your brains if you have to, just so you will remember that. If you have to jot these down, do it, for tomorrow and the day after that and so on, there will be difficult exams. Life is a practical test.

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Entry # 11

Date: Tue, 05 Nov 2013

Regardless of the hours of rest I give myself, this quake in my chest still would not die down. My heart thrashes for no romantic reason. And during its convulsive moments, I feel this fear might consume me. Later this day, I might trace my steps back into the previous night to see what I have done to feel so gutted and spooked, although I highly doubt it would be of any help.

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Entry # 12

Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013

On a night with the least expectations, someone might want to show up by the front gate. She could be a friend, her derelict vehicle behind her, engine vibrating in anticipation of a long senseless drive.

She might want to invite me in her car, and ask for advice: about how she was so doped that her mother found out; about the terrible travails that almost diminished her mind to dementia.

I might say, “Get us out of here first.” The tires would then screech.

I might tell someone to go to the nearest bridge, preferably at least a mile long, and there we might just drive back and forth. But the bridge would not respond to such foolish actions.

She might get tired of driving and just take me to her room instead.

Of course, no one will actually show up and demand my presence. None of this will ever happen.

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Entry # 13

Date: Thu, 07 Nov 2013

On several facets of human frailty that I fail to tamper with logic, a deep resentment in discussing them prevails. Is it because human that I am, that in order to function normally, I have to act as if my weaknesses are repulsive topics? But isn’t that denial, enough a reason to be asking for psychiatric help?

Well, I don’t need help. I’m doing good with my dull, simple life, thank you very much.

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Entry # 14

Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2013

Gentlemen can’t rack their brains. Ladies won’t do it for them. The might has been passed back and forth, so that one day, no one will be needing the other. We might all become asexual, and the only terrible thing about that is not finding enough limbs to stimulate the genitals.

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Entry # 15: the response to any dream is its own ending

Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013

I ask now for the wisdom of people hearing me out about this one tiny bit (Yes, my dead grandfather, you are one of them, so please stop brushing my shoulder with your phantom hands.):

TO DREAM of someone every single night when the clock strikes nine at the fall of all the bass with the banging in unison of all buttheads to the tune of all that has collapsed and will be collapsing with an angelic choir from the ripped-open heavens apart IS normal as long as it does not leave me grasping for breath, right? My dreams are made of sad stuff. When I wake up from one, I put a pillow between my legs and hug another with my arms, because it’s all I have. A bunch of un-talkative pillows, all heat-less and disappointingly foamy. They have phased out the feathery once. Too many geese and ducklings and mallards had suffered.

I saw once a meme somewhere, asking what if the pillows recorded our dreams and all we had to do is plug them to our computers in the morning to see our them, if any, again. Are they that stupid to not know that all dreams have no substantial beginnings? Only endings. Sometimes good, but most of them just stop abruptly.

Once upon a time, I had many dreams of this particular person who stopped jamming with me all of a sudden—and that is fine. Maybe she dreamed of other persons, too, who would be genuinely interested in the good stuff of pop music she liked. My sister, upon witnessing me looking so badly wrecked, decided one day to teach me a lesson on how to deal with the feminine intricacy: Snap out of it.

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Entry # 16

Date: Tue, 12 Nov 2013

Science never told us that deeply ingrained within the cosmic particles the earth was made up of, are so much drudgery that when the godly forces of Universe swirled it all up into a gargantuan sphere, the amalgam was but a place abundant of disappointment. Disappointment that, if served frequently in many a cold dose, will dissolve human faith. Thus, it isolates a person in a barren phenomena, a distant sanctuary of the inner self, sometimes called madness.

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Entry # 17

Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013

The roads that branch out to those distant havens are all awfully pungent like rotten onion. So here’s a useless lifehack: Be skeptical of maps with X’s on them, simply because they are stupid and do not belong in this time and age. Only ancient topography had these large red marks on them. They were created by humans for humans as imaginary goals with no evident rewards, so they could feel free to be objective, be freed from their doubts of existence, be ambitious despite the dull Sundays. What use really is there of a map? The long roads are boring and tiring; the short ones are swift and tasteless.

After thousands of years of improving technology, we still find ourselves stuck and deserted in a different dimension.

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Entry # 18

Date: Wed, 13 Nov 2013

Despite the miseries the kid had gone through, he managed to salvage his childhood by talking to a toy. He is his own true friend. A bond was naturally formed between him and Himself, idealistically unbreakable even at the toughest times. He was seldom seen crying simply because he was seldom seen at all. When he was locking himself up in his room, who knows what things he was doing there, the miracles enchanting him there. People were worried, but only because they don’t understand. And those who do never had enough time to pay him a visit.

The kid was bright, I must say. He learned that people do not always see the world as he sees it, and that it is his duty to understand them.

The sores still burn him throughout the years, but now he’s too tough for them. In fact, his toughness is so much for him to handle that it grows out as patches of facial hair and untrimmed nails and badly-attended hygiene. The sores itch him somewhere just above the chest, but he’s become tolerant now.

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Entry # 19

Date: Thu, 14 Nov 2013

I was pushing myself, tapping at the frontal lobes, hoping to remember something they taught me almost twelve hours ago. I was the new guy, one who gives the glass around a circle of conversationalists. We all drank the glass full of poison.

Laps later, talk got better. At that time, I munched on meat served on the table when this scourge started boiling in my stomach. The potion I had been passing around betrayed me; the friend became the repulsive adversary. In a blink, I was in the bathroom, throwing up. The liquid rushing through the throat and nasal cavity made painful spasms. Vomit dripped on my lips and in my nostrils. I felt weak.

This guy on the mirror squinted his eyes at me. He looked desolated and trapped. Too, he looked cool in that Joker shirt. Next time I see him, I’d take him out into the real world.

I cleaned up my mess. Peed after that. Went out and found my cousin waiting by the restroom door, asking if I were still doing good. I nodded and smiled and went to bed.

I try to recall what they told me, but all of those went with the gastric pulp down the reservoir of rejected principles (called toilet).

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Entry # 20

Date: Sat, 16 Nov 2013

It has been a long time since I was last aware of my being atop a floor of some church. Maybe, in recalling it right now, it was the last time I would ever be in a church, or any holy establishment for that matter.

At first, I was bashful coming out as a cross-breed of agnostic and atheist, but the more I learned, the more certain I became, that relying on faith alone would not be smart a strategy if one, such as I, were to continue living in cussedness.

I dislike the overall ambiguity of it, mainly because of extremists and militants who distort and/or obscure the truth; although I like the religious holidays and how they are so good at briefly converting us into ethical and kind beings, in whatever ways we know how, genuine or not, before we return to our same old selves. During this period, we are allowed to vocalize our hopes for humanity with minimal judgmental feedback. Everybody suddenly can forgiving. And here and there, lights would appear as adornments of the house, a welcome banner to accommodate any spirit who would decide to lounge in and share some thoughts.

Some people give too much color to it, though, to a point that my eyes have had enough of this abject misery. Here we are still with our dumbness in tact, trying to make something out of nothing. Conjurers we are not.

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Entry # 21

Date: Tue, 19 Nov 2013

Didn’t go to the morning class. Arrived late on the afternoon class, but it was fine. The professor decided to not show up, and make us wait in vain instead. Waited until the last class.

It was the hardest part, waiting. It always has been. Waited until my buttocks became sore in sitting. Waited until my legs deserted my being for standing too long.

Stuck my head out for some colleagues who were playing crossword puzzle on a tablet. They thanked me every time I got a word right. Waited for the last class. The raging current of boredom was made to take me away from the university, but it didn’t.

And I waited still. Until the last class. I was hanging around gay people giving lecture to straight dudes about homosexuality, and I lingered long enough to hear everything they all had to say.

I waited until finally, the wait was over. When I stepped in the last class, a 30-page surprise exam was waiting for me in my desk. “It’s a joke,” I thought, almost too loud. It wasn’t a joke. And the last professor for the day did not seem to be in the mood for bad jokes. In 45 minutes I was done with the whole thing. Whether I took the exam seriously was out of the question. It’s a funny world we live in. We wait for the wrong things to happen.

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Entry # 22

Date: Wed, 20 Nov 2013

When I think of how dashing I am, I picture myself lost with the commuters waiting in the train station, all well-dressed and well-mannered.

When I’m drunk, I dance while I pee. I draw murals on bathroom tiles with urine, and on the morning it would smell of ammonia.

I fan an old book on my nose and start sniffing its wasted years of abandonment, the smell of aging vanilla diffusing profusely from its pages to the air, renovating my deconstructed thoughts. I try to record what I’m doing as drafts (not videos) on my phone.

I think I’m hot stuff, sometimes. I think I’m all glam from head to toe, but it is all feigned. No need now for brashness; I am fully aware of what I really am, and it’s really not that difficult to see. I think of mysterious sounds droning somewhere to console me, but all that echoes back is a monotonous buzz. It’s all cheap cologne and thrift store clothes and perforated undergarments; and the train station is really just a dark alley of bad crimes, and the commuters are really just rats. The joints are creaky when they shouldn’t be.

I may feel pretty sometimes, but rainbows aren’t going to last the whole day. I’m just like everyone else, trying to be cool.

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Entry # 23

Date: Sat, 23 Nov 2013

Last Wednesday, I was already 30 minutes late for one of my classes, but I lingered around the corridor, eyeing occasionally the glass door behind which I should be, waiting for the professor to go out. You see, almost always does he excuse himself to go out to fetch something. I saw this as my opportunity to sneak in his class.

Go out he did, only when I least expected it. I fumbled for my phone and acted to be waiting for something else, and I can only hope that he did not recognize me as one of his students. I decided to chicken out. I made up excuses and debated with myself, but in the end, I chickened out. I was so close. Ridiculously so to have not carried on with this stupid plan. Being late already means demerits, and not appearing at all in this important subject only made me sink deeper into my own grave. The lesson, I hope I know now, is to never back out, not now, not later or ever.

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Entry # 24

Date: Tue, 26 Nov 2013

none of us could think straight, maybe it’s because of the libido setting in, or the lack of sense of responsibility, or the vague feeling of abandonment. i don’t know. i tried suppressing mine by drinking lots of chilling fluids from the freezer, but my brain almost got frozen. so i stopped searching for the things that might cure me of my disease.

a not-so-close friend admitted she was a bit worried i might get old faster than her, but i assured her that my gears are not rusty yet. just three days ago, when i woke up, i did some push-ups. my gears are not rusty yet. i did two sets of push-ups, five reps each, and i felt good. but later that day, my shoulder blades started aching. my pillows are all wet. how is that? my blankets, my bed sheets, my notebooks, my bag, all wet, each one of them. drenched with gooey substance. the smell is not evident, but with careful observation, one can easily deduce that such could only come from the windows of one abominable soul.

i know what you are thinking. but it isn’t true. they say words are powerful, but when they come from a tainted memory, words can be deceiving. do not be fooled. learn how to read beyond the lines. when i say my pillows are wet, i could mean my pillows were doused in nightmarish sweat. think about it.

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Entry # 25: 50 years past bedtime

Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2013

I will be your only medication when you reach the end of your career. I will be the palpable, inexplicable aftertaste with which you will want to harm yourself at the back of your tongue. I will not be toxic, though. Therefore, there will be no harm. Simply, I will be needed, just as one needs pills when one is feverish and unhealthy.

Preservation—for it is the old and golden that needs preserving; instincts and memories flashed pseudo-permanently on films or photographic papers. Sometimes we think of ourselves as a selfish bunch, but there is more to that. Thoughts in sarcophagus, mummified, waiting to be unearthed by future archaeologists.

Hopefully, after I bury these distractions, these murky musings—you, of course, along with all of it—our descendants would take the time to dig them up, to debunk the surrounding myths, to suffer from our recklessness, and to procure among the ruins that glistening wisdom I assumed to have possessed but never actually had.

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Entry # 26

Date: Sun, 01 Dec 2013

I have not yet involved myself in a physically intimate act, sometimes crudely referred to as having sex, with another person. Fuck me, right?

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Entry # 27: Kb

Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013

Should drunk people go to church? They seem to be passionate about begging for forgiveness.

I tried to lift myself up from the wooden floor but it’s no use. It’s rather a good thing, exceptional even, that near me is a pen and a notebook. This is written first before I typed it heavily into my hard drive.

I ask too much forgiveness; I should be a pope or live a celibate life or someone immune to the temptations of foreign flesh. I will use my hand. Good thing that is not the case. I guess you were not born for the likes of me.

When in the morning I wake up, you will still be in my mind. It works only if you were just as partial to me as am I to you.

I tried writing, but nothing came out of my pen except drools and spoiled sardines. What does that even mean? I hope you like those who struggle to formulate proper thoughts from defiled beings, because if not—too bad.

Instead of a lovely letter, it came out like this. You should’ve seen my notebook, how aggressively I scribbled down the lines, not all too hyperbolic for your taste, but given time, I think they will mean something to someone someday.

The dog’s been chirping the whole night, but how come? Dogs are not created for this sort of thing. I have wondered enough to think where you might be in this darkest hour, but I am not myself at this minute. The likes of me cannot make advances because the likes of me drop by to say hello a bit too late.

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Entry # 28

Date: Mon, 02 Dec 2013

Outside lies an interesting field. Acres of solitary people forming point circles of commotion. Wanting to be heard or seen or sometimes left out. Institutions for the misguided, for the zealots, and the in-betweens. But I prefer Here, breathing comfortably around denizens unwilling to choke me with their ideals. Here is a good place. Here you aren’t, you weren’t, you won’t be. Oh the joy of cumulative absence, whatever it means to you!

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Entry # 29

Date: Wed, 11 Dec 2013

I ask myself if the idea of my mind being attuned to a sweet raspberry voice I have never heard were reliable, that is, if paying heed to such would be worth my while. Disconnect a lonely guy from the tranquil comforts of his zone, and believe me, he will soon be hearing a voice so lovely he won’t believe it is from his own illusory incantations.

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Entry # 30

Date: Thu, 12 Dec 2013 10:26:32

My monochrome phone rang, and I picked it up. “Hey,” said the woman on the other line. “Are you free right now?” It took me a while to recognize the voice. It was, of course, Marian. Psych grad at 25. Practitioner of an unhealthy lifestyle. Preacher of poorly executed quips. That Marian.

“Yeah,” I said.

Once, she was a cast in my midnight dream, but that was before the wedding earlier this year. Had I been more receptive, I would have known her discreet “suggestions” and would have gladly reciprocated her hints. But marriage does bring out the woman in every girl; Marian knows better than to gun every young man in the room with her pheromones. She is now more dedicated to her husband, as she should be.

M and I talked for a while about this party she was inviting me in. I did not like going to parties, but this was a choice not mine to make.

I dislike family gatherings, as they always end up in political discussions that I am tired of hearing. Aunts and uncles throw back and forth the same opinions that I have memorized, but I won’t bother you with the details. We are a mess, you must know that.

Bonifacio died not because he was a part of the revolution, not because the enemies' rifles peppered him with bullets. He died because it was an order of the former leader. Do I think it was a betrayal of sorts? Here I was, wondering about patriotism on a birthday party.

We are a mess, my kin and I, you must know that. We think deeply in the dark moments of solitude, but in the wee hours of the morning, we weep brat-like because we tend to soil our sheets with the crap coming out of our boring mouths.

After drinking the equivalent of three bottles of beer, I wanted to sleep off the rest of the night, that I might shut the people out of my head finally.

Introductions again on the morrow, but not now. I need some snoozing.

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Entry # 31

Date: Fri, 13 Dec 2013

It would be nice for me to find you elsewhere, perhaps in a more okay place than this one. A wretched world where seven billion weirdlings live never is a good rendezvous for two people, one of whom aspires to be the ideal fling of the other. Outer Space wouldn’t do as well.

The infinite quirks of our daily lives bore the heck of me. Get me out of such languorous affairs, and let me see you already prepped up for this simple occasion I am trying to pull you in.

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Entry # 32

Date: Sat, 14 Dec 2013

The looks and the sounds and the feels of the people I have been browsing emotionally tortures me. The rumor is true: People are more beautiful on the internet. About their smarts, though—they vary from person to person. What is the etiquette, then, when it comes to dealing with these kinds of humans? Whatever it is, I just have to make sure that I am not to be so spooky to them. Ah—

Do not force it, they say. Do not. Do not, and all shall naturally, smoothly follow.

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Entry # 33

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

An old hag I know is into fits of cough lately. Her dear weak lungs now finally giving up on her. I would advise her to take her vitamins soon.

An old hag is the wisest crook I know, and if she died in her sleep, it would be a shame.

And the old hag needs some back rub, but it’s the middle of the night, and she hates the mere sight of me. It is not me whom she needs, but her god.

And her god would talk to her in her dreams, asking her to stop smoking. “Do it for them,” he would say. But she is such a stubborn woman that even a divine deity as influential and popular as her god could not convince her.

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Entry # 34

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

It is astonishing to find something so repulsive to be so breathtakingly beautiful. An amateur disease gone viral. Hers was a daring shot to the skies of blaring cyber-fame. The magic in her soul is hers to handle, and for the world to leash.

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Entry # 35

Date: Tue, 17 Dec 2013

Love is real. An invincible arc passing between at least two contacts. An idea agreed upon. A painful abstraction of an empty stomach. An ignorance that could not be vanquished. A gimmick pulling back the strands of hair to a neat style. A cheap perfume. A cheap mint. Strings of used floss. Polished fingernails. An affection for the outdated minds. Love is real, but lovers are not.

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Entry # 36: innumerable pointlessness

Date: Wed, 18 Dec 2013

  1. Raindrops fell on hot roads. Heat from the deepest, most complex of sanatorium was exhumed to the surface. Heavy clouds trap the vapors. Everyone was getting agitated as the city melted beneath the sky. It’s physics.
  2. Shards shot out to random directions, away from the crime scene. The vase had fallen to the floor, and I wondered why. The shards were everywhere. And what about the flowers? It’s unfortunate one could not simply reverse the path of every force of every particle that moved. There is no Rewind Button; this God did not make the events in the Universe to be reversible. It’s physics.
  3. I wasn’t looking when you were talking to me. Nothing in your speech is interesting. Because it’s about metaphysics.
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Entry # 37

Date: Thu, 19 Dec 2013

Talk about a lot of things.

Words came out of my mouth, slurry and very much undefined. I had no good sound to produce, no good thought to mutter, and still I opted to speak as if it were an obligation. I was told that random conversations alleviate the pressure inside—a release, a black opening, a tiny hole where the strangling gasesss would essscape, slithering all the way out.

The buzz I made was a lot, but the anguish in the guts remains. I might be perpetually strangled.

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Entry # 38

Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2013

Several minutes before midnight, all is burning. All is white with joy and desire and illustrative rage; and the tremendous heat escaping from the excited bodies make sudden changes.

Earth has been such a happy place where happy memories are shelved in boundless rooms. And we have made it that way. Humans are a mass so optimistic that the illusions of hellish ways of how the world would end cannot consummate our prospects of having something divine.

The midnight is coming, or has come. Or has gone. No one knows for sure. Time has been distorted by countless corrections and mistakes. Either we are dying, or already we are dead.

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Enrty # 39

Date: Sat, 21 Dec 2013

I’m holding you sober. Your sobriety is a blessing, actually, like a sneeze released violently after being held for so long. Thus, while my presence is still vivid, I hold you not in solace but in a fiery excitement. This is not a violation of privacy, not even a vile stratagem I organized; rather, a celebration of two miscible personas and the events that might follow.

Sometimes, I would look around, then see your face cranked and distorted with stress; your nails empty of colors; hair badly done, wanting of immediate care. I would want to extend a comforting arm, enlist you as someone deserving of goodness in life that only I could hand out, administer whatever assistance appropriate; and yet you remain indefeasible and mighty, even in this blurry world, that I dare not go near.

I’m holding you as an idol misplace in vain, as I would hold an expensive wristwatch I can’t afford. In reality, I cannot hold you, nor can I ask you to kindly hike up the skirt and show me a flawed world no longer knowledgeable of pampering.

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Entry # 40

Date: Tue, 24 Dec 2013

Sometimes, I wish you could take a five-minute day-off (ha!) from your skewed visions of screwed-up existence, but I have known the feeling for so long I cannot help but set up a gig for you to immerse yourself in, since I cannot convince you to see your life otherwise. It cannot be silenced easily, I know. It cannot be shushed. I believe, though, that one day, if you pulled and pushed the oars hard enough, you will transcend from such a low point in your life, one way or another. Be dear now, and don’t do anything stupid.

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Entry # 41

Date: Wed, 25 Dec 2013

I am a freelancer friend. Everybody’s nobody. The bastard who is somehow successful of winning many a peer by staying neutral, but is befriended truly by only a few. I am the embodiment of a grapevine full of backlashes, backstabbing secrets, and unfinished arguments. Containing them all is like taming a bull: I can’t. But I am a friend of this and a friend of anti-this, and this is all I have. Good luck with that.

I am the messenger who died in the landmine field, and my lords and ladies whose anguish I have failed to deliver to their respective recipients would have desired for me another form of death; however, I don’t wish to inform them my failure, nor do I want a second shot at retribution.

I am a freelancer friend, but if this did not make sense, it would work out for me just fine.

I have witnessed how people silently accuse others for their amusement, but have done nothing against it. I, too, am a perpetrator, and knowing that that title doesn’t offend me offends me. If this did not make sense, then I know I am doing it right.

I am a freelancer friend, what a hectic job it is.

I am everyone’s mailbox of undelivered hate, and if you would just please bash my head with a baseball bat like what jocks do in shitty movies for fun—

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Entry # 42

Date: Sat, 28 Dec 2013 12:01:00

I don’t mind goofing around with people who listen to drone tracks for entertainment, because they’re the ones who have interesting thoughts to share.

I don’t mind getting hexed by alpha dogs of my social circle. I’ve done a lot of bad things, and a little curse from them would only serve as a reminder that I should be doing worse.

I don’t mind being missed by some chubby lass who happens to be one of the peers’ leading darlings, even if she’s just joking. I don’t mind because I don’t believe her. She’s just being nice. Sometimes, I would like to think of myself as immune to such charms, but some charms develop new kind of strains that pass through my defense system.

I don’t mind not fitting anywhere with anyone, because no matter what I do, there will still be empty slots for me to get in.

I don’t mind being unable to patch this wanton bleeding with a remedial touch, for there will be appropriate hands willing to do that. I’ll just have to hang on and look for them and hope it’s not too late.

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Entry # 43: Things I’ve Learned in Matabungkay Beach Resort the First Time I Got There

Date: Wed, 01 Jan 2014

Cousins plan to take me to the faraway hellhole. I remember the environment as derisive, making one learn a couple of things:

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Entry # 44

Date: Thu, 02 Jan 2014

The meandering eyes possess a certain sharpness that only age or sickness could defeat. The meteoric pair sweeps the scenery before relaying any acquired data to a decent brain. However, they’re altogether defamed with detestable comments that often come from detestable figures, increasingly so that the evening has become an impatient wait for the dawn.

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Entry # 45: (i wrote once to a semi-imaginary fling. how stupid.)

Date: Thu, 02 Jan 2014

In writing this do I realize that your prolonged absence simply cannot be vanquished by smoke nor stupor. I appeal to you, thus, to redeem me immediately from the miring transpiration of my existence. Be that lucent reminder that at least one person is mad enough to console me, that I am worth the distance from the punitive gags others throw at me.

In reciprocation, I will be at my best behavior. By this, I mean to hush down my stupidities and will not be much of a douche most modern persons are. This will prevent your thoughts from being clouded with wrong accusations and conclusions.

If, however, things would go out of control, for such is Nature and all of its components, from order dissipating to disorder, then we must accept it.

(Strange for me to say these things about us parting already when we haven’t even met yet.)

I must go now, stranger. My bed invites me to DreamLand; it shall wane a bit of my impatience, and halt temporarily the effluvium of my tizzy thoughts of a faraway you. Take care always.

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Entry # 46

Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2014

We are isolated in an inaccessible isle of complexity quitters, far from where the funerals of social behaviors are. We have secrets that can astound earthworms and overlords alike We are not honorifics nor bureaucracies, but we are capable of vigorous copulation and funny possibilities. We are so stupidly driven we think we can own our disgusting selves. We are an asylum of dumb fucks in dusty trunks. We are a multitude of tragedies.

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Entry # 47

Date: Fri, 03 Jan 2014

My eyes now burn as the light effervescing from the monitor steal me away. I am looking at all the highlights of the human race, the darkness of the human travail, every peak and every trough. I am staring, too, at some faces, those declaring innocence. Inanimate faces are the only innocent things one can look peacefully at nowadays; and what a bad-luck-for-the-earth, for they cannot change the world.

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Entry # 48

Date: Sat, 04 Jan 2014

Many a night had I perspired in my sleep, the stench would be heavy by morning. I had to sun them thrice a week to eliminate the odor. But not anymore. I shall suffer no longer from sweaty nights. Alas! here comes the monsoon. It reveals the relief: a nourishing surge for the nonexistent seeds sown in the soiled thoughts of all, delightfully that it excites those who had grown tired of their dull vacation. A transition of seasons when peculiar things are deemed okay: again will bills drop to more affordable rates; wenches in corporal suits will now be drenched whores in the storm; vehicles will soon float as chunks of metal lilies on torrents of filth; bastards into sentimental poets. The rest—they are kids again, and the sour smell from their fermented armpits has gone.

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Entry # 49

Date: Sat, 04 Jan 2014

There have always been clusters of authoritarian behaviors ruining interpersonal relationships everywhere. It focuses one’s views on a central dogma—the person’s self. As a result of this dread, imagination becomes the solution to those who are defeated by the ruthless bossiness. The key to their internally induced contentment may lie on daydreaming that peace has a chance. That peace does stand a chance in changing the heartless into philanthropist.

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Entry # 50: four steps to senselessness and non-misanthropy

Date: Sun, 05 Jan 2014 12:01:17

  1. Protection before insertion. Diminish as much damage as you can by initiating the verification of a thought or an idea before you try putting it in a debate with others. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it must be cleansed.
  2. Allow usage of coins and undeviced dice for the sake of maintaining balance. The balance is to be kept horizontal. If it tilts, stop throwing up.
  3. Consider also ringing in your head the chances of diabloism. Does it divide or unite? Usually, I would suggest strongly the latter, but if yours is a non-canonical stance, it’s your choice. Just don’t expect them to hear you out.
  4. And in this mixology of brainiac profusion, I do not wish to astound the “elders” who have looked my way. I can offer nothing, not wisdom for I am inexperienced, not wits for I have been flunking, not even myself for I am nobody; but I could offer a fragment of personhood that you maybe familiar with, for I am a human nevertheless, doing robotic dance moves for a living.
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Entry # 51

Date: Sun, 05 Jan 2014

The sight is flared up to maximum, and one can easily see the radiance shooting up in geometric spirals. Every time I look, a small part of me gets injured, as if it had been approved by the whole universe to be so magnetizing yet detrimental. Such elegance prohibits me to witness its passing. It’s all theoretically acceptable, now that I think of it.

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Entry # 52

Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014

everyone—making homebound sentences to all directions and physically cancelling themselves out, given that each statement is of equal magnitude to the others they have made—is a nobody; and personally, it is enticing as it is discombobulating.

the joker in the movie The Dark Knight said, “this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.” nothing. nothing happens.

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Entry # 53

Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014

They have spoken. I know now exactly the best thing to do. Fairness is a virtue we have to embrace. We have to teach them this, especially that we see a lot of unfairness in this world. Pity is only given to those who deserve it. Thanks.

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Entry # 54

Date: Sun, 19 Jan 2014

The most inefficient guy in the bunch was heard chuckling over some unfunny improv. The cunning in his smile was made not to be infectious. He uploads what he cannot contain, mulls at what he could; and with this strategy does he religiously follow himself around the glitchy planes.

I am startled by his need to branch out from the existing norms, and to just create one that would fit his style. I wish to lend him a hand one of these days.

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Entry # 55

Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2014

I would like to oversleep some other time outside the house, in urban caverns beneath cement bridges where slums never bother each other, except only when asking for some little things. I would like to own myself for a while.

People would be looking for me, but I would be flat on my stomach, looking out far beyond the cities, watching the sun sink behind the buildings, aching and smiling as if they would never know. They might never hear from me again. I might go somewhere else where their warped movement I would never hear of. And that would be my moment, in the shadows, with fetid individuals who remain astonishingly optimistic despite their ordeals.

I would be hungry most of the time, feel groggy and smell bad, but that’s part of the plan. Restoration never comes easily.

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Entry # 56

Date: Tue, 21 Jan 2014

I don’t see myself either ill-fated or privileged. I just hang in here whenever I get the chance to just hang around a bit longer. I could not help but notice how different people are; and perhaps it is the right time to start expecting more instead of less, to learn again the profits of breakage, to harness the prowess and gather every last bit of sickness and health.

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Entry # 57

Date: Wed, 22 Jan 2014

Tried not to be hostile today. It was difficult. I’ve always thought that I’m one of the good guys, and that most people have lost their grooves, and that I should ignore their flickering noise.

Then, I remembered something my psychology teacher told me: “Superiority complex is the worst kind of inferiority complex.” I realize now that it makes sense.

Yes, the wrong people can make the bad things come to life, make them look better and cleaner. They direct the waters from the drainage back to the treatment facility, where all these fluids of all urban creatures are to be chemically infused with some drinkable liquid. They are wrong in doing so. But I was also wrong in putting myself several steps ahead of them, when really, all this time that I have been in the field, I cautiously look out for my steps, trying to figure out if I might be stepping on something hazardous that would shatter me to pieces, while everyone is already crossing the finish lines at the far side of the meadow.

I know this is a phantom exercise difficult to do, but doing it is kind of alleviating. (I don’t think alleviating is the proper term, but there goes.)

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Entry # 58

Date: Thu, 23 Jan 2014

I would like to buy my own camera, but I am too impoverished to obtain a new one. I must rely on my photographic memory for now.

I would like to buy me a new bike, so I can ride down the streets where children bathe and dance in the rain; but I’m too broke, so I would have to stick to walking.

I would like to buy a new pair of shoes, but then I remembered that updating my wardrobe isn’t my thing. So, I gave up on the idea, wore my worn-out slippers, and walked outside.

I would like for the sun to shine just a little, that there may be a glimpse of hope waiting behind the clouds.

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Entry # 59

Date: Sat, 11 Jan 2014

I remember stepping into the room where our fiery fate had long been waiting. Inside were common things. We could have set ourselves ablaze had we been careless, and “do you hear yourself?” was all that you’d muttered. Did I answer that, or was I into your dilated eyes then that I was stupefied? I don’t remember. Remind me of that sometime, do you mind? Who would have thought that within these white walls we chanted the same unintelligible syllables that only you and I must know?

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Entry # 60

Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014

The distant booming of a plane diverted my attention to the stillness of everything. Apart from the late night lights, outside was a dark aura that shines gloom over the land, and a magic called sleep had once been conjured upon those who grew tired of waiting for the night to fall. And to those who had been either immune to the curse or too bewildered by the things that had transpired recently to even dare to sleep, no matter how deviant and diminutive they were, they’re still up. They dug deeper into themselves, finding who they were at the moment. Some transform, others go mad and wild in flats without kitchens.

And I—I was here waiting for the hypnosis to kiss me so that I might finally rest these eyes. Most people were no longer awake as the curse tapped them. But know this: there was no awakening. Morning would come again hours from now as it has always, and the sun would rise still to put an end on the night’s sorcery, and they who had slept through the night would mechanically open their eyes for themselves or for their families or for that work, that school; but they would never be awake. They might have opened their eyes, but they would never see again what once was. They would fail to recognize—as it was in the past—the decaying things in front of them. All those time they were awake, they really were asleep!

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Entry # 61: a quick message to someone who is not the same as before

Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014

How will I face some new faces of Change, such as yours, if I am still stuck at the image of your former self, a bright effigy of both fluffiness and porcelain simplicity, now only a dissolved memorandum of the past? Your worshipers have followed you still, despite dismembering your own mane into some sort of a bobcat hairdo, which, I believe, is an emblem of someone who’s up to something worse than bad. Please, tell me one day, if we must inevitably talk, that this is not the case. Forgive me if, however, from now on, I’d be dodging your glances. I am not a fan of your Change. I was never a fan of yours to begin with.

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Entry # 62:

Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014

I don’t mind you taking breaks from our conversations. I don’t mind you pressing another particle of soft powder on your face. I don’t mind you doing anything at all. And when it is really time for you to go, to return to whatever job you paused just so you could mingle with me, I won’t mind, really.

I don’t mind you not existing at all, imaginary friend. Please come whenever you like. I could use some back-rubbing.

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Entry # 63:

Date: Sun, 12 Jan 2014

Spending time With myself again somewhere, wondering if someday our old jokes would make us laugh again. Our eyes, if they ever meet again, would gleam the same uncomfortable passion.

This world kills me, and I need you to redeem me from myself, because sometimes, murders pollute the forests inside me. Perhaps by taking a chance to talk to me about the simplest of things would calm me down.

Fool me again with your whining, and that is fine, that is, as long as you are patient enough to hear my forlorn desires.

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Entry # 64

Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2014

You are the beacon present in my daydreaming pastime. A multidimensional demigoddess of the morning light, present nowhere near me, yet reachable, if only I wanted to fight traffic for at least two hours. But even if I traveled that long, I wouldn’t be sure if you would even look my way. I look at the portraits stolen from the entanglement of codes of your cryptic love blog, and I see me damned to the bones. From the storms and debris I see you rise and fall, your chest doing the same. Jet-black shines with great ember, even outshining my wits. I look, and my eyes become deranged, my tongue blenched and smoked with the same coyness you are invigorated with.

The people who have touched you in any way are social alphas, but I cannot look up to them, because they wanted nothing but to hear you grunt some dumb syllables. This I cannot change. I can, however, buy you plastic flowers and inexpensive sweets. I can help you with your final college paper, but only if you would offer to help me in mine after. I’m being clever now, but that’s because I am hoping that someday you would let us be clever together.

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Entry # 65

Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2014

Scum is sometimes needed to retain an insubstantial kind of masculinity. It clings for a long time, the scum, even after many attempts of reformation. And this process I truly detest, as I find it ridiculous that manliness sometimes requires filth to be smothering the grin.

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Entry # 66: the fury of sunny days and humid nights

Date: Wed, 29 Jan 2014

I used to say, “I am not a clone of my former self. The past belongs only to the past.” That unalterable segment of existence which I would soon, bit after bit, forget. What I was before can’t be what I am now nor what I will be. Ever since people (and things) around me began changing at a different rate, my life has been a slow process of stepping down to bedrock. Something in them possessed a great influence that I can’t overpower. Is it because I was born to be a prey? But I am not. I look back at the months gone by, thinking what happened. Or rather, what have I been doing.

My people get drunk with me whenever their schedules permit them. They have this habit of opening me up. I am their patient on an operating table. One would pick a scalpel and plunge the thing down somewhere in my abdomen; the other would strangle a dark flesh, pick it up and say, “People, this is the liver.” What a sight: waterproof fluid squirting everywhere. “This is your liver in escapism.” There would be red drops in our drinks. Bloody Mary. And then I would reckon flashes of the former days, lashes always lashing. The world never has deceived me. I have many places in me. I can show you that. But you must knock first.

There was a blank sheet of paper in front of me. I folded it into a blank bullet and fired it skywards. You know what’s absurd? People who hold you in their hatred lungs, claiming that you have injured them with accidental projectiles, which, if only they really checked out, was their own un/doing. I had to think of something to jot down on it. But you—I can’t be breathed into doing something just because you exhaled my direction. So, fill in the gap. Fate is only a funny valentine, an incredulous affair written randomly in the stretch of space, not on paper nor in mind.

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Entry # 67

Date: Thu, 30 Jan 2014

the seconds go by, and not one sign of drowsiness is here. i am pulled back to surface by the imaginings i had this morning, perhaps an induction of the infernal core.

the first one was about my oral hygiene. in real life, i brush my teeth and wash my mouth at least twice a day. but it was in this moment that a cyst sprouted at the far right corner of my mouth. it felt discomforting. i could not bring to a full close my jaws because of the lump. without warning, the cyst detached itself from the gums (this happened abruptly), and out it came. the thing fell right into my hands. i tried squishing it a bit, seeing if it would burst into a bloody mess. there was a bad taste in my mouth, like a yellowish spunk of infection. a hint of iron.

the second dream came around quickly, picking up where the first left off. it was a party of douches and dames, the bass indelible, and why I was even there made me wonder. there were hookers dancing at one corner, giggling at their own reflections. high school friends were there, too. they looked sleek in their thrift-shop suits. one of the hooker was strip-teasing, and I watched a bit before finally retiring to one of the bedrooms, bored to death. i was searching for something in there, something i no longer knew, but was interrupted when one of the girls came in without knocking. everything faded.

the last of these dreams was about an odd contest. it includes some bulky guys. i can’t remember clearly now the mechanics of the game, but the emerging victor was supposed to have an “intimate intercourse” with the trophy girl. didn’t remember how it came to be, but–but the girl was motionless as stone. something bad was bound to happen, and i felt it was my duty to intervene. i sat down on the bed beside her. she motioned me to lie down next to her. when I did, she yanked my arms, and only then did I notice that she a former schoolmate. she was saying something, that she didn’t want all others prying over her body, how monstrous they behaved, how savage; that I was her savior, her last debuff that would put an end to all this scam. maybe she was right, but in order to prove her theory, her particles should not have begun drifting away.

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Entry # 68

Date: Fri, 31 Jan 2014

No time for preparation I muffled my breathing for someone beneath the bed. The person kept shifting as the metal hinges creaked around me. Someone yelled in the distant roundabouts of the street. The person’s breathing, and the occasional murmuring, was more audible, though. The air around me diffuses, and I would be choking soon.

Dreams show you an escape; nightmares pin you down. This was about the latter. The moment of helplessness, when you must realize this is just a dream. You hope you are smart enough to convince yourself to snap out of it, but sometimes, the magic does not work. It needs the latest patch, this magic, and you wonder if it’s already available on the App Store.

The person sensed a shuffling below. They stood up, metal hinges creaking noisily, and checked. She was naked—this I duly noticed—peering into my eyes. A woman, twenty-plus-plus of age. Had I given more interest in social sciences, I could have easily figured out the constructs that baffled the pools she was whirling me in. However, she did not mind seeing me there, a pollutant, a beg bud (or bed bug) lying quietly, breathing heavily in this tight space. She lay down on the wooden floor and rolled towards me under the bed. We gazed long enough before finally closing our eyes and did what had to be done. When I tried sliding my tongue into her mouth, she gently pushed me off, smiled, and said, “No, no tongue. Tongue is for pussies.”

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Entry # 69

Date: Fri, 31 Jan 2014

It was just a phase. And I was just fooling around when I said something about a recent thought of inter-species prostitution, an idea I am now alienating myself from after watching District 9 for the third time. That was a bit tough to stomach, I know; and no one, I think, could digest the thought without feeling nauseous. But I was just fooling around. Just being me, being funny.

I can be dark and shallow when agitated; more so when pushed to the edge. What you did kind of forced me to the edge. You were being nasty. The stuff coming out of your foul mouth was boiling like an ectoplasmic substance. You were just ugly. I thought of landing several fists on your face, but I couldn’t. I just could not.

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Entry # 70

Date: Fri, 31 Jan 2014

I see the curves and rolls, but none of them sticks to the heart. I see Mt. Fuji in every one of them. I look up and find it odd to say that none of them could really take me anywhere. They suffer the consistency of fluctuation. The movement of fashionistas impregnating their to-wear lists with high-end garments, but I won’t do anything about it. It might have even occurred to me to begin to hate them and the way they gyrate at anything that juts up the trend, but no, I won’t do that. Porcelain faces in horror movies have come out of the silver screen to haunt me during dawn. They evaporate and condense; they disintegrate and materialize. Stirrings are dragged down to the bottom by an unwanted enigma, and all the sediments pile up. The accumulated weight is a force enough to pressurize the amalgam into a hard slab. It is a mysterious event, if you really want to know.

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Entry # 71

Date: Sat, 01 Feb 2014

Hunger encroaches me as I leave my core crooning on empty rambles. It wails like a cat, yearning, wanting comfort. But don’t cats solve problems by themselves? They stoop on hot solids for warmth; they make themselves fit in narrow places for comfort. They are mathematicians, geniuses of the hexagonal cliques, indifferent to the happenings below and above them. So are my guts. My iron guts. My expanding-then-contracting-then-expanding-again guts. My forlorn, agitated, sweet, empty guts. My chemical guts. Well, if you wanted honesty, that’s all I had to say.

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Entry # 72

Date: Sun, 02 Feb 2014

I admire the discretion you like to keep in your circle, but have your eyes laid upon what’s real? It’s still out there. Compose all you want, but it does not do away the hunger and thirst, the lack of clothing.

Mark of proboscis left pinkish dots on my legs last night, and that’s nothing. When I was a youngster, I used to apply hydrogen peroxide on an open wound I got from a roach bite, and the infected area would fizzle like soda. Crummy! I used to chug down my old man’s leftover drinks because I wanted to maximize our water consumption. That, or I simply wanted to prove something. Our lives were impeded by this kind of living. It was not my choice, however. There was no nobility in it, as you may have heard. Only instincts on loop.

If you were annoyed by the extreme impoliteness of those you have touched with your keen sense of romance, then I don’t get you or your kin. Your story are written in books so few I bet they’re treasure. I will bring myself to this: you do not suck, oh perfected being. Although it shouldn’t be anyone’s nature, I cannot blame them for looking up to you with their sunglasses on. Again: you do not suck. Not the slightest bit. You do, however, contain somewhere in your core the need to obliterate. Golems will bow down before you. Totems will be erected in your presence. But you will be the storm that doesn’t give a damn. For that, I will be secretly be battling against myself (again) for such is athletics, and athletics means endurance.

Go back to the years of small talk, and you might just see what I have seen in the eyes of many. I know the alleys at night are quite dark, but the infection is real. Maybe an agua oxinada flashflood would come soon.

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Entry # 73

Date: Wed, 05 Feb 2014

the thrash bin in my room was already seven days worth of garbage when my friend walked in. he quickly put a palm over his mouth and nose, perhaps awed as he couldn’t help but notice the sight and smell. i told him it was rude to keep staring at my junk.

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Entry # 74

Date: Wed, 05 Feb 2014

It was the musty atmosphere that makes those dots in the night sky shimmer with a faint fluctuation, giving the illusion of wonder. Glitter is fake, experts say. We wanted them to flicker, but that is not a hottie hot sure shot. And when the nights no longer show us the stars, we grow ignorant of so-and-so’s such as how goes the process of whatever. Meaningless, and all shall be forced to commit to their faith.

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Entry # 75

Date: Wed, 05 Feb 2014

A hot gust of vapor draws abstract murals from dust particles on decrepit vestiges. Invasive is the dust twister, momentous the amber, as restless as I, submitting all to droop under the shades. I’ve been waking early to long hours of stagnation, torn already and, come noon, odorous of mixed sweat and cheap perfume. This is a way of life that’s supposed to be something good, but has gone otherwise. It would be helpful, though, if a sort-of god would fall from somewhere and start directing the flow of traffic—what goes where, which goes here. But no astral transfiguration would ever occur, however dire the problems are. For contingencies such as this, I must not resort into believing nonexistent deities but must possess a sound mind, instead.

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Entry # 76

Date: Thu, 06 Feb 2014

I always feel as though I’ve forgotten something. That much is certain, though, that I’ve forgotten a great deal, but this nagging feeling of forgotten priority or importance is always there—that without remembering I stand to lose a great deal. So each moment becomes a struggle to remember. Remembering is easy, though, for me anyway. Or it once was, but it still seems to be. I choose to forget now. I spent the bulk of my childhood remembering, without choice, flowing into what I’ve become as an adult; if you forget, you’re forgotten: undependable, dead-weight, uncaring. It all comes down to time—what we think about time—because remembering only matters in the context of promptness, that you remember when the time is nigh. Miss the moment and the remembering no longer matters, or not in the same way anyway (like l’esprit d’escalier). Keeping deadlines, delivering on demand, and giving people a reason to trust you with themselves: this is what remembering consists in. And I choose to forget. And that’s inertia; that’s death, the default setting we’ll turn back to in the end. But writing is remembering, and, on some basic level, I think thought is too. So for now I’ll sleep, forget all this, and you will too. Maybe I’ve forgotten that it’s okay to forget, but I’m sure I’ll forget that too, once it’s time to remember again.

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Entry # 77

Date: Mon, 10 Feb 2014

The busiest parts of the city are the dirtiest. The playground of imps. Vehicles bucking on bumpers upon bumpers; and drivers are not so different. Everyone’s strategy: cut into line, be ahead. The smog causes a dull buzz below the folds of the forehead. I walked on calloused roads with a smile in my head. It seemed to be a good fuel for the core. On long and tiring treks along pavements with marred and tainted dimwits, if one must pursue one, I suggest keeping a slip of happy in the chink of the mind. Works wonders.

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Entry # 78

Date: Mon, 10 Feb 2014

I don’t mind playing with people who listen drone tracks on YouTube for entertainment, because they’re the ones who have interesting thoughts to share.

I don’t mind alpha beings of my social circle hexing me. I have done a lot of bad things, and a little curse from them would only serve as a reminder that I should do worse.

I don’t mind being missed by some chubby lass who happens to be one of the peers’ leading darlings, even if she’s just joking. I don’t mind because I don’t believe her. She’s just being nice. Sometimes, I would like to think of myself as immune to such charms, but some charms develop new kind of strains that pass through my defense system.

I don’t mind not fitting anywhere with anyone, because no matter what I do, there will still be empty slots for me to get in.

I don’t mind being unable to patch this wanton bleeding with a remedial touch, for there will be appropriate hands willing to do that. I’ll just have to hang on and look for them and hope it’s not too late.

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Entry # 79: Carlin’s Comical Cynicism’s Carefully Corrupting

Date: Mon, 10 Feb 2014

If you would tell me I am different, I would have to respond with the most improper inquiry, thus: Am I differently different, or am I *simply *different just like everybody else? It is my way, unintelligent though it may be, of possibly making you explain to me how I go noticeably about the realm of social anxiety and decrepitude.

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Entry # 80

Date: Tue, 11 Feb 2014

(i am you.

you write what you like using understandable rhetoric strewn creatively, and you queue it because you don’t simply give in to the impulse. you let yourself and your new-found ego cool down. you allow it to settle before telling if it’s already good to get baked out there.

minutes later, you read a fellow’s recent post and in it you find a very similar understandable rhetoric you used in the one you just queued. you are now considering to reformat the whole thing but are slightly agitated, for doing so might mess it up.

five seconds–what will you do, you?)

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Entry # 81

Date: Thu, 13 Feb 2014

the things i would say to my kindergarten-self are definitive on their own. it’s just that, this boy was past his time that he couldn’t even look after his own or smell his morning breath. he would brush his teeth. he would smell of his parents’ cologne, because to his senses, they reminded him of people who loved his every cell. he could tie his own shoelaces, and now look at him, tall enough to see what’s over the fence.

i am him. or more appropriately, i was him. to be honest, i white-lied when i/he said a paragraph ago that his idiocy in the vastness of the cosmic plane was noticeable, but such was not always the case. there were holes in him which were passed down as a genetic malnutrition to a much younger sibling, and had he been eager to fill them with something, he would have been a hole himself. but he is me now. and i am getting there, stronger daily, more unpredictable than my kindergarten-self.

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Entry # 82

Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2014

And when something real cannot happen to people with glossy, fragile skins, or the natural flow of things does not provide them what they need or want, I have some explaining to do.

People, including you and me, embalm their selves with the platitudes of comfort and lies, their disappointed when reality overpowers expectations. It’s always a nasty feeling. Do not force a lid onto a boiling pot of stew.

However they defy their insides, it will always be too repulsive, and instinctively, they will groan in disbelief. If they would find themselves more miserable than before, it could be that theirclothes don’t fit anymore, and they who have endured the discomfort just to invigorate minds will no longer be known to the true ways of the world.

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Entry # 83

Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2014

So cold a gaze chilled the feet and quashed the appeals to move. What freaky look this villain must have, impertinently so that it degraded the chap to a decrepit slab of dung. It provoked the heart of the panic-stricken victim to violent convulsions. The chap sought for warmth in him that might thaw his frozen figure, but none of it was found. Nothing but the peculiar sense of disability, as if the legs were stiff columns attached permanently to the perpendicular floor.

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Entry # 84

Date: Sat, 22 Feb 2014

Snitches and their knack for uttering in cursed tongue the strangest of their gigs and affairs just to baffle those—maybe us—who are molded to live only in normalcy or less. This is evident everywhere I turn my head to, more so their ineffective disguise of their own tedious statures jeweled only so as to steer the optical inferences from the truth.

I have tried to mingle with these porcelain-skinned hippos, observe their mannerisms from a fence, and—and this is for the future seedlings, so listen up—none of which are astonishing. I can get more hype from staring at a full moon. That shit gets me hanging all the time, not these bipeds. I will not be forcing an attempt sojourning about their living fantastic lives as such a thing is plain stupid and for paparazzi only. Theirs is a make-believe job and a perishable nobility. Plus, I can enjoy my own corner, with or without a dunce-labeled hennin.

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Entry # 85

Date: Sun, 23 Feb 2014

Sweat was smelly underneath the clothes. Indeed, it was a race against the self, against his tigers that had lain dormant and have now trembled awake—the tormentors versus the tormented. He perished in discomfort. Knowing that his body had become the adversary did not help. Giving up was not an option, though. He dragged on continuously, careful not to lose concentration. With determination, he was convinced that this stupid skirmish was his to win. Vengeance and its squalor would be swift. The beasts must no longer clutch him by his entrails, and in its spot, belch subsiding, solace would emerge.

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Entry # 86

Date: Sun, 23 Feb 2014

You are an entity I hear as the headphones speak to me in lyrical glum, you who have taken residence in the smug of a mind. I feel you as glowing lamp or a growing lump homing for the core.

Too, I feel dispirited knowing your nearness is as far as you are, but the distance does not always matter, especially when things involved are beyond logical entanglement and scientific method. My eyes can only discern objects up to about 10 kilometers, yet the syntax of the physical stretch is making me sketch on the eyes. This itch requires them to be drugged with special milk drops as the lactose in them is rumored to reduce the redness of the sclera, although—who am I kidding?

The mourning is over. The bills now pile up, and you have left the spot. However, as long as memories remain mine, I’ll seek more of you in my clammy head, and less of the hopes that are stolen from me by the real icon of you here in my computer, and by fate.

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Entry # 87

Date: Mon, 24 Feb 2014

The protests against needless use of fossil fuel proceed; however, as ignorance prevails, any rehabilitative efforts for a greener environment are only shelved in vain. We must be so amused to the collective fuzzing of cars in traffic, the lost watts they emit. We have this weird fascination for their kind of jamming.

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Entry # 88

Date: Tue, 25 Feb 2014

The last of the chills crept up the last strings caught in the cobweb of a hair bundle. I am cold again; I thought the last phase of cold winds has gone down the enema meteoron, but it seems to have returned, checking on us if we have sunken enough to the lowest of our low. I am cold, but I don’t need anyone sharing my cot. It is small and narrow, and I don’t like sharing it with another human being. Besides, there is always that option of peering down deep into myself, back to the past, and it is proven to be more effective in keeping together the internal heat than to have some warm flesh next to mine.

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Entry # 89

Date: Wed, 26 Feb 2014

the hardest part of finding myself in my own dream was, my ability to bend morphean gases was muted. in the arms of myself, i wailed in fright as i tried to outrun whatever it was that was after me. imagine me sprinting on a nether architectural abandoned ruins whilst hugging myself. i was a straitjacket away from being a hospital fugitive, and maybe the addition of such could have explained it better. it did not match any interpretations, and so it must have surpassed anyone’s knowledge; however, i cannot be certain of this. and that, kids, was what made this dream a nightmare: uncertainty.

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Entry # 90

Date: Wed, 26 Feb 2014

I see you evolve every time I visit you here. I see you grow, as time passes, more refreshing, the blur stuffier. The friendly aura is understandable, but friends in any form or shape in this region are made up of surges and of subconsciousness.

This is a giveaway: your soul rests upon the blinding neon lights, but I don’t believe in the existence of souls. They’re just one of those terms people use as an excuse to be hyperbolic about whoever is no longer in the physical here. Whatever happiness or sadness or weariness you consume consumes me as well. We are here, and it is in this isolation we are linked.

Any temperament is the result of the pushing and pulling of my imagination until it is almost imperfect. The flaws make you a better person than who you were the last time I was here.

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Entry # 91

Date: Fri, 28 Feb 2014

There will be no more humiliation for the self, and I’ll design something to extinguish this desire for personal affliction. Patience has helped me laugh again.

If ever I mentioned once that I was not fond of changes, don’t mind it. Transformation is either for the betterment or for the other way, and the process of how will it be hasn’t swung by me yet. I am on my way there, however.

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Entry # 92

Date: Mon, 03 Mar 2014

who went here but again another shadow all by her lonesome, an odd presence in the homestretch of valentine’s. strange that her beauty didn’t attract attention other than mine. yet i made no move. i’ve seen this face before. but the setting was inappropriate, and i bet the arcade boys would shoot me in the hoops if ever they found out that i was eyeing her.

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Entry # 93

nothingness is not really the conventional idea concerning the lack of everything. there is a lot going on in such a state; however, the things involved are of opposite magnitudes. hence, there is no net difference, no absolute sense. (haven’t i said this before?)

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Entry # 94

Date: Tue, 18 Mar 2014

Forward again through the slosh of nosy people who have always been imprudent when they step on feet unknown. Watch their faces smirk as you frown upon them. They never apologize, at least not with words. They just cock their heads slightly forward, a palm up. Idiots. Nevertheless, I could pass this as a reasonable excuse. Nowhere is safe. A fact.

This is a daily routine to and from school. That inevitable commutation from point A to point B. I study people from a distance carefully. I could earn a degree called Bachelor of Science in Sociopathological Polyphasing—whatever that means. My hands on my pockets, sometimes always, sometimes never. There’s no such thing as being too alert. It isn’t comfortable anywhere near these people, in this kind of density.

Fellow commuters do the same. They get lost. Lean on a dry wall, their hopes fleshing out their glimpses until they bleed out their entire sprites. In a place like this, I’ve always assumed a defensive tactic of not giving a whole bunch of heck to strangers. It seems to work. I seem to be alive.

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Entry # 95

Date: Sat, 22 Mar 2014

I will tell you any of the jukebox jokes I heard from a recent elevator ride, but it is too foggy today, despite the climate, despite the counterclockwise rotation of an ethereal axis, to be telling local puns to someone who has no basic interest invested in me. I recall your fondness for stupidity-masked garbage-can comedians (which explains why you like oscar the grouch), but I am more of a cynical ass-hat rather than the funny guy you knew from years back.

“You are the love of my life,” said no one, not even me. “—but i will let you know every now and then that a good laugh makes it somehow a bit bearable.” It is a good point. I like how it is pungent on my tongue, the way it clicks.

Every time I make my way down the staircase, the spirits of the past keep pulling me back up to the first step. they know it will be hard all over again.

(At the back, somebody is secretly paying attention to my maneuvers, but he’s just a furry douche. He is bound to be like that. He will end up puking by the sewers one day and he will rejoice on ten meals a week. No one actually minds him; that is, in the conventional sense of mindfulness. He too is full of jokes. From birth until he gives his entire existence to this branch of the hyperspace. You will like him when you meet him.)

Am I again on a trance? I have frequented this site since we decided to call it quits. The branches grow again, the leaves greener, the sense vaguer as usual.

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Entry # 96

Date: Tue, 25 Mar 2014

how does one avoid not to tear up a bit upon hearing Liebesträume No. 3? (and by ’tear up a bit’ i mean not of tear/s spilling profusely out but a hidden vibration convulsing somewhere inside, like a muffled thunder of joy or something of the equivalent)

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Entry # 97

Date: Fri, 28 Mar 2014

the coming of an indigo like the last track of Interstellar 5555 extensively stretched to induce a hard drive malfunction. however, there is no hard drive; only a squishy organ of neurons lodged in its own cranial asylum, always on the brink of lacunar amnesia. the ability of how a person can remember to wait varies solely on the song being played on that blasted stereo. no song at all means impatience exponentially growing, invariably.

this has been too long a wait for precipitation, too tiring an amble across the asphalt desert in search for an oasis. the batt on my phone is 2 minutes away from complete silence, and i have still to walk for at least 2 lifespans. in 2 minutes, i will be relying on the party in my head, and if that would be the case, shall i consider now formulating a long-walk mental mixtape?

(there is no hidden punchline here. if that’s what you’ve been waiting for, read this whole thing again.)

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Entry # 98

Date: Sun, 30 Mar 2014

a circle has an infinite corner, not cornerless. a sphere numerous fringes, never an ’edgeless cube’. slenderman, therefore, instead of having no face, dons limitless visages where only one should be.

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Entry # 99

Date: Tue, 01 Apr 2014

Saved hopes are the very atoms of a place in full oscillation, working for something routine after routine until the system can provide not longer. They are the points in which we bound ourselves to rub over our limbs for bliss.

Gone were the days that made me so proud about this place. Gone was its magnificence. The city swells; in it are torn people wanting to survive and to occasionally live. At even rarer instances, to laugh. It swells past harmonics, past all this noise, this wasteful waves of losses until it can no longer contain the blankness that would soon embalm every corner as soon as it ceases to pursue living.

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Entry # 100

Date: Sat, 05 Apr 2014

the dream was: i was in a theater and the lights were already out. few minutes into the film, shadow figures came out; one in each entry halls and one in each fire exits (a total of four). the next moment, everything was illuminated with gunfire, and everyone fell down. i did not know how many were dead, but i was alive. when the spraying of bullets was over, i got up to look for the silhouettes, but it was as if they were never there. these kinds of nightmares make me want to wake up, but no matter the will, the body simply won’t just snap out of it.

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Entry # 101

Date: Thu, 10 Apr 2014

it’s like in the video game, but to see it personally made it much worse an experience. to see from a safe distance the graduates being led to a pool of fire. each one literally jumped off from a ledge to their burning demise. the reward was fake. there was no reward. no one deserved to be convinced to take a leap towards something so inhumane.

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Entry # 102

Date: Sat, 12 Apr 2014

i hope it doesn’t come to a point in this warped timeline of ours when smarts would run away from us as we continue to ignore our stupid actions, that we would have to remove the plasters off the walls where bits of graffiti once were illegally imprinted.

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Entry # 103

Date: Sun, 13 Apr 2014

talk about genetics, about patterns flourishing and going in and out of the blue, about architecture, landscapes, your travels, but please not again these old adages, these beat-up notions of yours on politics and religion. we all know it will take us a long time to get there, so please, let’s talk about something else. i am tired of hearing your visions and seeing your soundless arguments. the horizon is an illusion, you do know, yes?

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Entry # 104

Date: Thu, 17 Apr 2014

To let the joules die down even amid this season is pragmatic, but to what extent is it considered to be sane still? I get the occasional desire of diving in a pool of water. The reason behind this may have something to do with heat being related to fire, and fire being quenched by water, thinking that by diving into the blues will somehow lower our body temperature. However, this concept is only true in some cases. Not all the time does water extinguish fire, or in this case, body heat; is the water in the form of steam? Is it boiling? Is the water a hard block of polar ice? Think about it.

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Entry # 105

Date: Wed, 23 Apr 2014

my swirling shit are internal yet damning all the same. the first three words in the previous sentence is just a phrase of mad idioms to equal that, um, “lamentation” i am currently experiencing that when expelled leaves me empty in the guts. most of the time, it’s a relief to let it go, similar to the sensation one feels for expelling actual swirling shit.

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Entry # 106

Date: Mon, 28 Apr 2014

so boundless was the poor man’s want to leave that he forgot to look out, and was stuck instead in the misgivings and misleadings of the past and present for another week. if isn’t obvious enough, let me tell you: it sucks.

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Entry # 107

Date: Mon, 28 Apr 2014

Rudeness is as internally ubiquitous as every oscillating particle in our being, but being the sentient creatures that we are, committing such is more of a choice than a predetermined fate.

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Entry # 108

Date: Wed, 30 Apr 2014

tell a parent that, for succumbing to the groundless notions of other people, you don’t blame them for not gaining experience and, thus, not leveling up. it was when you last checked yourself on the mirror, hair so unkempt i swear ants are already stockpiling there for december, that you realized everything (and nothing) is the result of your knock-outs. look into yourself now. you will see a wooden drawer painted white. pull the top most compartment. when you check the files dated april 30^th^ of every year, notice that there is nothing out of place. in fact, there is nothing but but’s.

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Entry # 109: choking jumpscare sequences

Date: Fri, 09 May 2014

nightmarish distresses have me by the neck as each sends me to hysteria. blood gushes to throat, vehemently throbbing. i am left immobile and paralyzed, vulnerable to my own mind’s freak shows. here are the latest ones:

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Entry # 110

Date: Wed, 14 May 2014

In the passing of time, I have read several articles about the truces between the upper and lower layers of forgetfulness, and how each fold is affecting the ones adjacent to it. But if I should re-type from memory the first two sentences of each article, I could be wrong. Memories are often misleading, and everyone knows that.

Sometimes I listen to music to help me remember what I should have forgotten, a note assigned to each ego I have shed, one beat for every tooth I have misplaced. There are questions, too, that are triggered by some tracks, and usually, the answers to those are something about learning (or choosing not to) from the sections we divide to belong on the left side of spacetime line. As we skim the past, we will see traces of sound waves that bring out the melodies we long to disinfect but somehow cannot. Makes me wonder: Why bother re-tracking what is or are not anymore?

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Entry # 111

Date: Fri, 23 May 2014

the crisp in one’s face becomes crinkled upon agreeing with the internal faction of the self to set out on a trek away from the living standardized by the norms of the environs. only a philosophy founded on empirical accounts could have supported this belief.

“it might work,” one would say. (what might work? the crowd would ask. this time, however, one no longer pays attention to the whims of many.) and to believe it to be the road to recovery is one thing; it is another for it to actually work. if and when asked, one would openly admit that without professional assistance, the outcomes are blurry at best. if done right, it could act as a placebo; otherwise, a paraplegia of sorts. it really depends, this figure now thinks, on the setting of the journey and, ultimately, the destination.

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Entry # 112

Date: Tue, 27 May 2014

i took off, leaving a few sweetened nothings to those who saw me on my way out, but there were busy spirits upstairs so absorbed in other things that i did not mind saying goodbye to them. i thought it was cool, disappearing like that, but it isn’t. it was me breaking my own fingers, thinking the spasms would go unnoticed; immature and unclean.

the ‘spirits’, via text, told me, “we didn’t know you already left. say goodbye next time, will you? haha. take care.”

the message was so striking i cannot help but feel sorry for myself. again, my actions have let down the important people in my life.

small regrets do add up to form an indelible one. futureSelf, if you’re reading this, don’t do it again.

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Entry # 113

Date: Wed, 28 May 2014

the point of buying movie tickets is to have the best place in the theater, and in my opinion, that would be four to six rows from the first. apparently, many still prefer to watch from the balcony, the point of which i don’t understand. isn’t it the same as watching at home on a 42" tv? if i were to spend my money on cinema, i’d make the most out of it by placing myself where the magic happens.

however, i didn’t want to argue with the couple who dragged me to go and watch the latest installment about mutants. after all, my ticket came from their money; and any intolerable situation that comes with good freebies i can purge later over the net. call it whining or complaining, whatever poisons your heart.

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Entry # 114

Date: Thu, 29 May 2014

due to much contemplation, one eventually becomes wrought to the point where the skin hugs tightly the flesh. it grips around the neck and fatally damages the trachea. before submitting to the void, one expends the last calorie on one final thought: this is just a drill, and the sooner i comply, the better.

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Entry # 115

Date: Mon, 02 Jun 2014

The hot eastern breeze brings me again the smell of the dying spirit of a man who, at his drifting moments, prefers to be drunk than to be sober. He sends absurd messages about the value of family and friends, and the need to glorify a supreme being. Is this the manifestation of his ancient doings, to be a sorry figure he inflicted upon himself long ago, a silhouette among the sunny crowd that demands only pity because he can no longer afford one for himself?

We throw first the ball far out the verdant field, hoping a loyal friend would get it for us. But that isn’t how loyalty is determined. And so, having finally noticed that the ball is there and we are here, and no one else would retrieve it for us, we ourselves fetch what we have thrown. We are our own dogs, leashed, illogical. Why are we even willing to do even simple things for a greater authority? And, isn’t this greater authority our own selves? We did not realize that early on. Too dumb, actually, to have thrown something away in the first place that we would want or need right away.

This old man had thrown away his one life, and now, it’s almost too late to think things over, especially that his mind smells foggy with brandy.

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Entry # 116

Date: Tue, 03 Jun 2014

She sends an e-mail to her latest lover every time something important comes up. She is with us, but her mind is across time zones, the globe she spins as her own, wondering what he has bee doing. Is he eating junk food? Is he himself a piece of junk? Will he be sharing bread to help us out here in this tropical place? Her eyes dance to the bits of waiting, but can only be so patient. She waits for him to go online every night, and when he does, they would spend hours chatting about the things they already know. Hours of canned convo on loop. Why? Because people are dying to hear something familiar again.

Everything is quickly becoming foreign to everyone. Even the space is altered constantly to blur tick after tick the visions of moments ago. Details are microscopic as observed from a perspective. Despite this, the world still feels the same, the grand blanket not threatened. Too many earthly heartaches, afraid of the known and unknown and all those in the un-categorized synapses.

She looked beautiful yesterday, but an hour ago, she decayed a bit. So he must be updated, lest he recognizes this person of his interest no more.

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Entry # 117

Date: Mon, 23 Jun 2014

The gaps themselves serve as tips on how to quantify the seemingly immeasurable stretch between two points. The tension does us a disservice and at the same time connects us at some caring level: a pull-here push-there mechanism we barely can integrate into our senses. Start convincing ourselves to put aside these variances, and instead, begin to nurture the remaining similarities, minute though they may be; here commences the series of stimulation where respect for the other becomes more pronounced through actions, growing little by little. The liking of personalities comes afterwards, being able to forget to look down on our altered views of living, finally agreeing at something compassionate or unique or otherworldly. –No, we will not admit that there is something more to this flimflam, but soon enough, we will lock ourselves in distressing passion, and whatnot.

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Entry # 118

Date: Tue, 03 Jun 2014

Do some bad things for your own detox, but ultimately, you should not be so cruel to yourself. The frailty that is your own dumbness can subject you to hazards, but this does not always permit you to search for your things in the wrong places. In the mornings when the sun is hiding behind the vapors, have an apple or a banana or a coffee, or any other ABC’s, because your purpose for yourself is to be in mint condition. most of the time, it is Monday. Do not look for your undergarments in the wrong pile of clothes. Have you forgotten where you placed them? Too bad. Somebody might have already bleached your granny boxers for you, in which case, set the said pile ablaze and seek solace from the warmth of its fire.

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Entry # 119

Date: Wed, 04 Jun 2014

i rattled the crisp carcass on my head along with me not only because i needed it to confirm how dubious strangers can get (and i was right–two individuals gazed at me in a bad way), but also it doubles as an adorable protection from the sun (but i was wrong–my scalp almost burned). a bird can perch in the nest of my hair, and i would not mind. anyway, there was i walking towards a skinny buddy familiar only to keen senses, for after all these months that i have not seen him, he has not gained weight nor another strand of hair. he told me that not much has changed since last we met: him, slim and peculiar; i, outstanding only in implosion.

we both complained about the thinning of the ozone. you see, in many ways we are similar. we grumble at anything of minute importance, from the dots of our being to the relevance of government, ans such and such. i was about to tell him this discernment, but when i looked over my shoulder, the guy was gone.

the afternoon was deadly, nothing unusual. anything can disappear and anyone with asthma would want to disappear. i moved on.

i went back to the old apartment, and therein stood a lovely parent waiting for me. she seemed more organic now. buddy and hogan2 have been moved out. our refrigerator was gone. most of the objects that we had were no longer there. she sold so many things. the living room was the only sentiment of this abode’s previous splendor left, and even in that moment, it echoed the chills of the occupants who once had been screwing their lives there. “where is everybody?” i asked my mother. she did not speak. maybe she was disappointed, too. this rest house, this anthill, no more.

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Entry # 120

Date: Wed, 04 Jun 2014

I will fail to distinguish the abilities of devices, if any, modern or imagined or both, that gauge the overall sinister receding to the specter of your ancestral genes. Temperate regions near your aura deny me the will to make the first step, primarily due to the conflict with what you discretely portray and with my lineage. 

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Entry # 121

Date: Mon, 09 Jun 2014

you have survived the weekend through the mastery of pretension. but honestly, it’s fine, given that you will remain true to yourself no matter the complications. it is understandable to rely now on any input, since you have been emptied by the malice and travails. if anything, struggle was a cyclone that came and went.

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Entry # 122

Date: Tue, 24 Jun 2014

any promises of coming up with an epistolary compilation plummeted to naught when the receiving party, on thorough dissection of the contents of the mail, chose not to reply. the sending party might have penned something barely inducing a response, but how could they know? they are not the smartest guild in this damned rut. their hearts convulse at small inconveniences, their brains short out. fools!–they had to bother the mailman for many months just to realize nothing was coming their way.

it is all in the past now, and everybody changes places at some point in life, builds new forts, or adapts into a new circle of unfriendly neighborhood. the return address on that mail does not belong to anybody anymore. and the mailman, now happier, has been untouched since.

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Entry # 123

Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2014

a scene where i was running away from a man with a gun recurred. every time i looked back, he could not be seen because it was too dark in this long alley. when i looked down, my legs were running on concrete treadmill. i kept running, but didn’t move. i yelled at him to stay back, but he just gave off a sinister chuckle, the only sign of his lurking.

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Entry # 124

Date: Mon, 30 Jun 2014

I could hardly make out the figures of stoichiometry chalked on the board, or hear from the soft droning the instructor’s purr. There was no dullness in any chemistry class I have been, until that moment, when in a blink I found myself—quite instantaneously, as if bypassing the physical laws of nature—lying on a bed. In that moment of my teleportation, came in the room a girl of familiar shape. We used to hang out together. We played with flames, but along the way an obstruction was formed. It all just did not feel right anymore. Funny how small things can make big differences. The flames were extinguished, and it was all queasiness from there.

Anyway, she came in the room and feigned surprise. I was not in my bedroom. But her walking in was graceful and felt natural, like I had predicted her going in the room and likewise, she was expecting to see me there, and that my being unexpectedly there was something easily thrown out of the picture. We made out on the bed, which felt good. And remembering this whole dream I had still makes me feel good, but not in the way you are probably thinking right now.

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Entry # 125

Date: Tue, 01 Jul 2014

it is [hh:mm, between midnight and dawn] AM here and my [medical term for ’eyes’] are [a synonym for ‘suffer’, in present progressive tense] from [an eye defect, in layman’s terms]. [an irrelevant Latin clause/phrase]. you are [phrase/s with deep philosophy references] while i am [string/s of coffee shop jargon] with my [brand of cigarette] and [brand of the most overrated liquor there is]. this is how i miss you, formatted, on a template of gloom.

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Entry # 126

Date: Wed, 02 Jul 2014

Scene 1: It is tough to look at the songbook for a number for the jays to sing. Your lungs don’t hold as much air as you’d like. They go out when the crowd doesn’t have a clue on what you’re on to, if you really were in sync with the karaoke. On the plus side, your voice sucks. Another party blending, human tapestries to shy away from. It is altogether different in the rural villages. The audience there are more tolerable.

Scene 2: A housemate dragged me in front of his girl to celebrate a two-decade defeat. My eyes hardly peeled themselves as he prompted me to a glass stall of many a love song.

Scene 3: Gut me not as I down my last meal in zero expertise. It feels good to know that such food is possible in a lewd setting. I have always thought of KTV bars as establishments erected solely for old timers willing to empty their wallets in exchange for a quick relief. I was wrong. Good grub, bad choice. Good drag, bad voice.

Scene 4: Two tables actively participated in a garbling chorale during the happy hour. Tough battle.

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Entry # 127: how to be creative

Date: Wed, 02 Jul 2014

when an earthquake of low magnitude shakes the place and is felt by the millions of strangers prancing on afternoon streets, go directly to the nearest wifi hotspot, ideally a coffee shop, and hop online. but don’t you just post a mindless “did you just feel that earthquake?” status to direct the local netizens’ attention to the obvious. do not cheat nor settle for this mediocre chore. you, as a trickster of various complex trades, are better than that.

instead, say: “i witnessed something that trembled me to my knees. i was on the twelfth floor when the ground beneath the cars of the street across this building convulsed and split, and from the fissure, at least four iron tendrils, each as long as a ten-wheeler, came out and started striking and crushing all the moving objects nearby. every businessmen sprinted off from the chaos; the hipsters held up their smartphones (run, you bastards!); the lovers accepted their fate. when the ground quaked again, the cleft grew wider, eating the street up (and all on it) until the sidewalks became the dried lips of a gaping mouth. from this opening, an abysmal cyber-cuttlefish slowly rose. as i type this, the fins just passed by my window. why do i feel leaden? i’m afraid this city will be baptized very, very soon.”

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Entry # 128

Date: Thu, 03 Jul 2014

my ideas emulate the rapid propagation of bacteria in a culture. do i have a filthy mind?

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Entry # 129: connections

Date: Fri, 04 Jul 2014

  1. in pulling down the lever that opens the louvre, the light reveals unto thee the crisis of spatial contingency located in the gap between two households. this gap is an outside basement of ancient debris, an ecosystem for stray cats and other non-mammalian pests that, come dusk, bug you with eerie messages. this is your view when you get up late in the morning, when you recover again from the previous hours what you claimed you’d have forgotten by daylight. reminder: push back up the louvre lever during bad weather, because there is a rain drain pipe about a meter away of which end opening conveniently faces your window. on stormy days, your view is niagara falls.
  2. what kind of room is this? a sliding door with a hook-and-eye lock? even the hounds can topple it.
  3. speaking of hounds, there are two of them of the same muscular build. the younger one frequently sprites on furniture and footwear and the trash bin, and leaves a mess when he’s left unchecked. if caught doing misdeeds, i beg you, do not grab the broom stick and whack him like a golf ball. you imbecile, you irresponsible dog owner. teach him manners without using fear and violence. be cesar millan. besides, golf sucks. and golf courses waste acres of space.
  4. the only credit i can give to the entirety of golf is in the engineering that lies on the ball itself. its pioneers were smart to design onto its surface a tessellation (of sorts) of dimples that would make it fly efficiently in terms of aerodynamics.
  5. one more time, i froze in an un-cool way, the way in which i put a palm over my mouth, and my pupils dilate. it is hard to regain from a shocking incident. i shall narrate briefly about it, nonetheless: my cousin and i were eating our dinner together, talking about the richest drummers—because david grohl was on tv at the moment—when from midair and onto our food landed a rogue cockroach. it strolled over our dinner, and my pal started cursing at it, profusely so. the villain was uninterested in humanspeak. cousin spooned it out and placed it atop the table, still near the food, and stood up to get the insect spray. like i told you, the whole time i froze in an un-cool way, not because i feel icky around roaches, no. it was this bold move, to not give a damn about humans having their dinner, that insulted me speechless. BAH—the memory is fresh: the soft buzz of the wings, its hideous presence, its indifference. i know it’s over.
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Entry # 130

Date: Mon, 07 Jul 2014

Stooped on a seat and quiet was the only friend. Your drink was rattling on the table turning sour. It was a cough of coffee from somewhere, another item on my list of odd offerings from myself to myself—the strangest one, by the way, is a sleeping pill. It’s funny because it’s an antidepressant that opposes the main function of caffeine, and could someone be held responsible if these were inaccurate? Yet, I would rather gulp petroleum. I mean, I would never drink fossil fuel, because that would be crude. My mother used to bring home Arabian beverages, but none of them could restore the lost youthful vigor. 

My veins at the side of my head feel like vines creeping up a steeple of nowhere-land, green whips lashing all at once a crack. 

And when Time slowly ripened—the boy ageing to a man, passed from one to somebody’s meager hands—the Life, if it were one, was threatened, when the last option was to choke the limbered existence with a fade from the changing smoke.

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Entry # 131

Date: Tue, 15 Jul 2014

the flesh had avoided mingling, and now, it longed for warmth. i strolled down the grime network of alleys and streets. at night in some corners, an armed man waits for his next victim. one could die for the simplest yet stupidest reasons. good thing i did not fancy the night mistress that time nor did her darklings paid me visit. i did stroll at daytime, safe and away from curs; and went out and met the disorder pleasantly. i exist here and now, that means i took the right turn homeward and slept through nocturia. 

some say the way to a thug’s heart is to fiddle first through their fatty liver and then their blackened lungs. others prefer the benign processes of social merry-making in which only money talks. but since i did not inherit the gambling traits of my father, this suggests that i take the liver-lung option, unless there is a third, more viable option: why bother myself of the disdain among choices, when not choosing may be just as valid? 

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Entry # 132

Date: Tue, 15 Jul 2014

i noticed somebody who walked just right in. “nice figure,” i told them, offering a compliment. something about the way i spoke irked them. this newcomer, before leaving that same instant, retorted in disgust, “i am a complex, multi-faceted being, and i don’t deserve this catcalling.” and just like that, the person had come n-gon.3

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Entry # 133

Date: Tue, 15 Jul 2014

say, the audience has a way of nodding the other way when one yearns to lavishly hold the heart by the hand. meld with this crowd to find the silver-ticket seat in it and enjoy the rest of the play, or walk out and return to the same derelict zone where the engaging things happen only at the other side of a screen? hint: the answer, the obvious answer, cannot be uttered in chorus; comes (or in this case, goes) only during a meditative posture over a ceramic bowl.

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Entry # 134

Date: Sun, 20 Jul 2014

Out of fatigue, I have mapped the innermost spheres to bring myself back to the life of some familiar thoughts, regardless of the lack of logic. I found myself rolling over, restlessly wrestling with the ideas and the perversions we shared that I think both you and I cannot forget.

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Entry # 135

Date: Sun, 20 Jul 2014

Out of fatigue, I have mapped the innermost spheres to bring myself back to the life of some familiar thoughts, regardless of lack of logic. I found myself rolling over, restlessly wrestling with the ideas and the perversions we shared that I think both you and I can’t forget.

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Entry # 136

Date: Mon, 21 Jul 2014

When you look at your watch, you perceive the duration of your stay. It is alluring in itself: its hands beckoning your eyes to look at it again when just ten seconds ago, you checked the time. Unless your reality twists on itself in a loop, ten-second moment does not change much.

Alas, you have no watch, yet you imagined yourself wearing one. That feeling when a concept materializes because (y)our mind can be, at some instances, playful; when you are humming a tune and suddenly the radio is playing it; or when the door reveals what’s on the other side but you already know what or what not to expect. This is the time you feign the awe, and since no one will do it for you, might as well rediscover your type of entertainment.

So look inward, and tell me what’s in the stall. Do you see magazines filed in a rack? Now, don’t let your hands rearrange them in an order—usually, the most informative ones in the front, fashion mags at the back. No one cares about your pick nor your priorities. Or, do you see your favorite electronic apparatuses? (Again, don’t.) Do you see plates of food? (Surely, you won’t.) Is this your enjoyment? Would you like to grab one for yourself? Do you buy your happiness? If, instead, you see abstract objects—colorful and always psychedelic—it’s because you haven’t been in extravagant shopping centers.

Everything might have seemed illustrious at one point in your life, but I think it was a part of a long-ago blindness, when your status was still surrounded in debris, and you and your friends played in front of the rich man’s gates because that was all this penury could offer.

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Entry # 137

Date: Mon, 21 Jul 2014

i had a dream—in fact a series of dreams, but i can’t remember all of them except for this one. i was taking out a smelly trash when the plastic bag broke at the bottom due to much weight, and all the rubbish and garbage juice splattered on the ground. i picked them one by one and put them back in the bag, which just slipped right out of the hole. this went on for minutes, until i felt a squirming sensation in my mouth, as if to snap me out of my focus. i spat on the ground. it was all saliva, blood, and maggots. i spat some more, because the squirming would not stop. still, blood and maggots. horrifying.

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Entry # 138: afternoon ale-ment

Date: Tue, 22 Jul 2014

a guitar man once told me that people find creative ways to authenticate their unhappiness. i thought to myself, “do they also generate their own festering?”

i attempt this now, because my self as usual belongs to a different place and time, the self that waxes some fake wings onto his back to fly above the cityscape just to have a talk with you—

would you swear to tell me next time we meet on that alternative setting the consequences of ignorance regarding the science of jesters conscripting their fellow jokers under depressive fumes? humor seeks to temper the blemished cheeks. yours, though, as i remember it, is beyond despair. the way people snap their necks to your way just to claim your cheekiness for their own, even for a while. or the way they applaud at you every time you share a laugh. they are selfish. they only want to have your fun for themselves. and by ’they’, i mean ‘we’. by ‘we’, ‘i’.

and if i may, i want to tell you some things. don’t worry, though. the sun is high and the wax melts on my back. i am dizzy from keeping my composure here mid-air. the harder i fight the fall, the dizzier it gets. i’m not sure you can condone this, but this will be over soon. i will tell you this in the most non-poetic method i can, as poets are often misunderstood, and i don’t want to be it that way.

…periodically, i wear jackets of different thickness to fend off the cold that is never here. remember, the sun is high on my back. i can’t even imagine what winter feels like or what six sol-less months must be on the skin, as i have lived my entire life in a tropical metropolis. yet, whenever it is unusually chilling and/or i just feel fashionable, i wear jackets.

why jackets? why of different thickness? (i ask questions i want to answer myself. read on to not know why.)

the phantoms—phantoms being strangers enlisted under ‘painfully wonderful’—avoid making themselves visible, but when i spot one, i acknowledge them with all the disease in my heart. i shiver. i steal from my courage, and look. my hopes, on the other hand, strive not too hard in the labyrinthine craft of the virginal, semi-acoustic, like-minded imaginings of art and clarity of cloisters found both inside and out of my pad. i need to have a third set of skin to protect me. like the glossy veil that hugs a hardbound’s cardboard shell. a cover to cover the cover, you might say.

as long as the thought of any self-rubbing, self-squeezing celestia i have down under my clothes, there would be no problem. as long as you find the idea of it appropriate for you to hold, then i shall, with all of my calories, stand ever so firmly with this your notion, even if it directs me to my perdition.

immortality is a cheat index to fulfill a lifelong death wish. you do recall, don’t you? it is also the wax that holds together my ‘flappiness’ that is almost gone now, and yet here i am, asserting the point still. you do recall, don’t you? well, i don’t, but it doesn’t mean it’s not true in many cases.

in any case, i know this afternoon is spent yet again in trance, the prismatic heavens dancing along my breadth, but i enjoyed it since i have you to guide me safely into a landing spot as my wings finally detach themselves off of my spine.

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Entry # 139: mortals and pestles

Date: Thu, 24 Jul 2014

Shortly after an earthquake dream, I wriggled out of the blanket into the world downsized from its colossal stature.

Inside dreamland, everything is blown up out of scale, and the dreamer will have to resort to other forms of traveling. Once, I summoned a firetruck and boarded it. I escaped a traffic jam but was later flagged down by a traffic enforcer. What said he? He scribbled on some ticket-pad as I reasoned my way out of this mess. “But Officer, this must be a dream?”

I resumed much later my choking seizures, because that is how I deal with the contingencies of my itchy closet life.

Mortality, if anything, is a bitter potion I have been drinking from the fountain of my grandma’s garden. It helped me flush down the lipids that were passed to me down by her black sheep offspring through genetics, which were then stuffed in my atria at the dawn of my existence. I don’t know what to make of that, but it was boiling in me. That was a long while ago, though, at least several hundred honeymoons into the past.

And if the ground shakes again the next time I lose consciousness? Or is the inversion of this that I must be aware of?

Everybody would shift from side to side, their pelvic bones gyrating without me, retracing lost steps on grand parquet still without me. I would have to dance alone to safety. However, this is nothing new to me—a task from my routine, it simply is.

I don’t like how this is gradually becoming a burden when I really think it isn’t, and I can’t be certain anymore whether meteors are worth the synthetic stigma of aspiring spacepeople. Or of astrologers who think of them as the trails of omen.

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Entry # 140

Date: Mon, 28 Jul 2014

Actions are supposedly rougher than things involving those being still. The sirens are fast asleep and the vehement things (i.e., very bad people) are thrown back into the mix. If there is one moment of peace amid commotion, it happens on a bed.

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Entry # 141

Date: Sat, 02 Aug 2014

The collected horns of traffic rising up to the challenge went on tirelessly. Another day to get by. I knew that I must look in every direction before crossing the street. At one moment, a truck étude blew me off as if to say “Speed up!” The driver did not wave a hand when I looked up at him through the windshield, but, in a raspy yell, said some bad things. This must be the workings of having to wake up early in the morning, groggy still and breakfast-less, to deliver big things big people buy, in order to live by until the next paycheck. I forgave him for being crass and out of mechanical practicality. I could have flipped him the bird, but that would not have taken the both of us anywhere. 

As I walked on, I saw a tramp waving at me. He is fat and ugly and untidy. His smile was devilish but kind. I did not give him any spare change. He quickly averted his attention toward another soloist about a few meters behind me.

There was a time in the past when I imagined myself walking the streets of Manila, with a placard containing cryptic message, begging for alms. What could the reasons be that I had to escape all civilized endeavors and be a vagabond? I wanted to know how difficult it must feel knowing that pedestrians would never look at me the same way. Also, could I go under the radar long enough for everyone to forget I ever existed? It is possible, I thought, since authorities pay no attention to missing individuals of little importance to society. Make no mistake: this was out of curiosity and not of deluded romanticism.

I guess, I just wanted to travel by foot, see where my legs would take me.

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Entry # 142

Date: Sun, 03 Aug 2014

she danced with the 17 roses unceremonously. there was a hint of contentment, though. i think the 13th and 14th roses are her flings. i can tell by the way her lady friends shrill their kilig. she must make a choice soon, though. it is a fickle thing, love, especially at such an age when the body dictates the mind and not the other way.

she is my second cousin. in the clan’s customs, everyone should know everyone, but i have been too busy with the immediate radius that i did not bother expanding my social circles. because i see no good point in it, pretending to want to be around a relative i barely grew up with.

and yet, i was watching her enjoy herself.

they hired singers, too. i forgot what the guy was singing in this part, but it was very good. the quality of his quips? inversely proportional.

in between dances, my table mates and i would excuse ourselves for a breath of air. outside the venue, there’s a photo booth. we went there.

my hair was unruly, as always, but it was the first time that night that i saw how terrible the case was. i could pass as the next vocalist of The Cure. we took pictures anyway.

back inside, they already serverd the dessert. it was a bland gelatin, yellowish in color, almost like a pus. would not be surprised if it tasted like one too.

my seatmate, Gary, turned to me and said, “everyone is about to cry.” i looked up and saw why.

when the debutante threw her arms around her father, heaps of the crowd wept. he’s the 18th rose. the last dance? aunt says he’s been diagnosed with stage 2 prostate cancer. says his days are numbered.

she has every reason to cry.

my eyes were itchy. must be the dust.

hotel food is always rubbish. always prepared sans passion. i have watched too many cooking shows, and that must be the reason why i expect so much every time.

soon enough, the old man was drunk and making noises again, as were his table mates. thirty minutes before the party even began, they were already drinking shots of double black. he brings shame wherever he goes. there’s that.

does anyone wish people stopped attaching definitions to a certain name? i do. in my dream, i am always not me, which is good.

a good drive is doing at least 60kph in EDSA. EDSA! i am talking about the most notorious avenue in the country being a free road!

driver, step on it, would you? get me out of here.

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Entry # 143

Date: Mon, 04 Aug 2014

double black, per the suggestion of our resident ortho, must be tried by anyone who fancies a clean hit, because “it’s smoother than the black label when it comes to sensation.”

i was going to ask him to expound on this topic, but seeing the speedometer swerve between 99 and 101 while cruising homebound on skyway should be enough for me an evidence of his DUI as i leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

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Entry # 144

Date: Mon, 04 Aug 2014

bus stops full of air and smoke and not of people standing beneath, because they no longer wait in safe places. they would rather jump aboard anything that whooshes by above 40 kph than fan themselves in boredom near suspicious-looking smugs. if you flag down something, be prepared to run after it. it does not stop for anyone, and who you are going to be after this commutation determines a good, at least decent, fate only if you were alert. attention here is crucial. as is everywhere else, i suppose.

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Entry # 145

Date: Tue, 05 Aug 2014

it is rather simplified, i guess—the clouds spinning invariably to form a greater cause of casualty, wherein the issues involved do not attenuate the fear of getting struck by the heaven’s bolt, let alone help one to crawl back under a shade; that in this dreamy hour, all rambling and rain-swept, i step back to the discomfort of my moving legs, my first walk to my first school. it is just a lane away from here. not too far. but to the calendars on which my memories are taped may already be pushed way back in the distant space; and need i some treading to reach it once again. again, for the sake of doing something.

the learning center has been shut down for years. beyond the gates, last i checked, were the peering capsules that used to modify the future heroes whose guardians did not mind throwing away their money to the modes, albeit ridiculous as i have learned in the grapevine, of education that was never saintly contrary to the used-to slogan. as a child, i was not informed of the ways of payroll. no child should ever be burdened of it. here, i only learned the fundamentals.

my first school teacher, Carol, already a divorcée when i met her, said that i was a brilliant kid. she stamped my hand with a purple star labeled very good. i knew that apple was red, and that one apple added to another makes two apples. rough guess: i was not born stupid.

it smelled like an infirmary, her small office, although at the time, i did not know what infirmaries smelled like. the janitors, perhaps in seeing that they would be mingling with kids everyday, had to sanitize everything to bleach white. the basic stench could have fried our little neurons, but i need a good source to back this up. it remains an observation, untested in the laboratory or at the field of ascetic hypotheses.

father told me her son died due to food poisoning. out of neglect. which is why her husband decided to leave her for good. 

teacher Carol erected the center in memory of her dead son. thinking about it now, it is weird, since the back story was unfit to support the beams of this mini-institution, the slow degradation injected to the thoughts of young enrollees, i included. the legacy lived on in spite of it. the valedictory speech that excluded any formal attempts of greeting, reduced to a simple nod to while away the persecutors perched on their seats.

however, coming to grips, yes, this is it: mi último adiós, to the necessities unfailingly dismissed by the order of hand landing briskly on their cheeks.

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Entry # 146

Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2014

it is often without good reason that i tend to push the things needed to be done further into the calendar until pressure builds at one corner, but today, four days from deadline, amid the tangle and toss of Recto (“rectum of Manila,” Sionil José once said), i finished something significant. i don’t feel proud, though. just tired. and weary.

they say that delaying the accomplishment of a task improves the quality of output. practitioners from the medicine field might not agree on this.

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Entry # 147

Date: Tue, 12 Aug 2014

din regurgitates into being much “oblivionism”, a state in which no other states exist except nothingness itself. and maybe train tracks, and the train on it, and the people aboard the train. are they part of this whole new nothingness experience? maybe, of the entire consciousness where the ‘soul’ arrives.

every station is a new quest to find ways of austere astral jaunts, to seek thrills that are slowly consuming. i think if alchemy were real, it would be the grounds of metaphorical truths. or rather, it is only true in metaphors.

nebulous cries dissolve in time, and as they do, they are converted to a new form of energy, as if lead being transmuted to gold, poison to elixir, burden to enlightenment.

i, mor(t)al, am running alongside a train trying to outrun it, all the while singing a christmas carol. in here, however, one has no lordship over one’s speed. one simply witnesses oneself play for the theatrics of one’s mind.

i find it less odd to know how slow i am in a race against a machine.

i woke up feeling golden, which is not startling.

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Entry # 148: for someone who dismisses horoscope, this is it

Date: Wed, 13 Aug 2014

we can stay and be friends. 

we’ll watch together other sunset photographers fill their portfolios with overused motifs and themes—the same fibonacci of flowers against a tangerine opacity—but let me not blame them for marveling at the picturesque facets of nature, how they point their cameras westward feebly, funny because it could not be helped. i can imagine how helpless they must feel, unable to temper that desire to document all that is beyond their hands, as most of the time, i feel that, too, when putting to words my thoughts on certain aspects of living. humans can capture through manic simulations that elusive beauty of nature, although our copies only asymptotically arrive to what could qualify as good. give a few more years, decades.

from our vista that is like no other, watch how bats flutter at the low altitudes of the metropolitan squabble, and wonder, as we should, where do they go to sleep? do they have caves here somewhere (perhaps, beneath a footbridge) made out of guanos and stalactites? i’d like to see that—with you, of course. i think of their migration from provinces to the capital, clouds of them filling the skyline of roxas blvd. motorists would stomp on their brakes, and cars would pile up from baywalk to nowhere, all of them looking up at squeaking portents, flying bats.

in this note, i’d like to know if manileños are a curious lot? i mean, to the point of giving in to the cessation, just to watch (with us, of course) any motion of ill omen.

but we are too absorbed to be anything else. only seldom we focus.

cities are full of noise. never has telecommunication been so important. white screeches and negative feedbacks, night lights blotting out the stellar pyre: anti-magic in the form of hidden humanity, anti-motivation in the form escapism. nonetheless, both cannot be heard nor seen, even if one pays attention.

too much for too long, the blankness in expression expresses that much diffidence pervading throughout the air, reaching zeniths, but not way, way up and out. we nominate which of our scriptures would ascend in air to be carried to places, the best breath we can part with the wind. it is up to the newest methods we have at our disposal if such texts and tones will land on their destinations. even then, we are barely understood. as peers, we have been out of touch. as colleagues, we are too arrogant in advertising ourselves. in the end, we wake up to the same monotony that cannot be auto-tuned.

however, stay—for the vodka ever so vivifying; for the superlative factors that we have yet to seek, many of which do not belong anywhere and anywhen else but here and now. the future might not be as amazing as it looks, and the past, despite my previous convolutions, apprehensive. i hope we can visit soon a big observatory, that i can disprove myself these allegations.

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Entry # 149

Date: Thu, 14 Aug 2014

when i seek peace at the roundabout, i do not expect that something good will come out of it. as a matter of fact, through the years, i have leaned on an incline where bad outcomes outweigh the good. if a man would jump out of a corner with an ice pick on his hand, then i know i was not wrong in thinking of the lurking harm that riddles the unseen.

when i seek peace on my bed via slumber, then it is another experience altogether. yes, it could feel swift, but it should not be as detrimental a sensory as the one above.

it has been bothering me, however, for quite some time now, when the solemn act of sleeping (alone on a wide bed, preferably) cuts into the known dimensions of space. physically, it is not possible, or at least, not yet to laymen. but that is what i hope to achieve: to rip through the rift and jump to the morrow in the most efficient way. meaning, arriving at point B from point A expending minimum effort. 

i lie there, eyes closed, illusions of time are chucked to the null. it does not matter when i retire early or late at night. my body clock wakes me up at the same hour: 10 AM.

time supposedly is a man-made abstraction, a term coined to describe the passing duration; a word that tells something about an organism’s age in a language humans can understand; represented as t in calculations. if i were to talk about the virtues of time, wouldn’t it be just a waste of it? but how can such non-material concept be wasted? most importantly, did i oversleep again?

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Entry # 150

Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014

to transfer all the bile polluting the organ beneath the chest out of the system; the fluid finds its way somewhere non-hepatic, somehow. to transfer it all from the random sketches of envy and venom to the fangs of a lower serpent, and out to the bunks of the underworld waiting, if only that were anatomically possible.

i haven’t been to an ocean’s floor. more so, it is not dead. even more so, it does not wish to receive my refuse, and at the same time, i don’t want a trace of humanity among its dark depths. and yet here i go, casting now and casting more. every segment is an episode of quivering motion. this is dilemma setting in. either that, or i, at this unfortunate slice of moment, am too blind to see what is visible to many, too dumb to derive a conclusion based on the provided evidence. whichever holds true, and truth being one coming from a third neutral perspective, for the time being, i assume the former.

i know what you (future-me) are thinking. you think i have overruled the impossibility of mistake by disabling that which only mechanically functions nowadays. then, you are wrong. your instructor, flawed and hemispherical, does not benefit from the perverse discretion of isolation. for all i know, it is a symptom. you are fermenting your own in a vat, full to the brim with nothing but. 

it is fermented: the blaring news. and now you know.

gist in one question: how do i deal with such intemperance?

sometimes, i wonder if there’s a benefit in addressing the current problems to a person from a different spacetime, and if such benefit would be immediately, effectively, noticed by the one who is babbling (me). that no matter how hard i suppress dem feelz, they only flow in every direction but inward. 

lo, this is another low, the newest actually, delivered unto me in a quick fire through the account of a similarly aquatic drone, but under no circumstance is it intentional. my part here is atlantic.

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Entry # 151

Date: Sat, 16 Aug 2014

abundance of a source, as long as it is free and safe, is never the subject nor the issue. you know how the imps whisper into the ears of winos but not nibble at the rim of the ale bottle? there are no ‘dirty’ things. there are only 'dirty’ people.

someone once told me that a shot is enough to displace one’s beliefs, depending on the quality and content. i held on to this, although i’ve never dreamed of evolving into an active bar brawler. i am a lever not a fighter. by that, i mean i am more of finding leverage in other means rather than submit my physique to a process of reduction. if, however, the only way to deal with the situation is a hand-to-hand combat, i’d go and give it my game.

the problem is, i seldom go to bars, because they are all filled with noisy people. noisy people alone are fine, but noisy people quarantined in the confines of alcohol – that is a different brooding. i’ve seen in those spaces how my contemporaries were bred further into bad socialites. therefore, the chances of my hitchhiking onto a fist-fest are slim. there in bars, my blood boils for some reason, my veins pop, my teeth grind my teeth. this is unnatural. my temper is not usually disorderly. besides, i am too broke to be wagging my tail bone around, pretending i need new phone pals, because i don’t.

i wheeze, but i strive to smile and be thoughtful. and my poor metallic curse cures itself poorly; and that’s how things are here.

the last time prior to checking out of a reggae bar, i stomped too hard on the pedal of a bass drum. i questioned too why the featured bands imitate a jamaican accent. one of them looked very oriental, his eyes, and yet he formulated his voice to sound differently. be yourself, i thought. amid the kung-fusion, i sat placidly with a free beer in hand. who was i to contemplate?

friends let their friends get left behind, burning at ice palaces, not looking back, apologies fleeing from the stares, for they have stolen something they couldn’t return, because they thought i had embarrassed them. the only way to confront this was with a mild sedative.

nevertheless, my goodness is still in tact.

it might take me a long time to go again where the mass is happy while the roads are splitting open, the ceilings ablaze with phosphorescence. at some corners, there would be voyeurs asking for bruises in some conduits, and accidentally eyeing on them makes me uncomfortable.

so, i’ve never been this eager to feel so mega after feeling so milli. i try not to be impulsive.

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Entry # 152

Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2014

it was almost an honest moon, stars striking our cordial conversation, when the one-sided attraction lost my favors by a rub. i always kept a fact sheet of data to present to a future ignominy, however unpromising the fluctuations had been, to be as scientific as possible. but is it really possible to be scientific in dealing with these kinds of things?

in many attempts, the prowess extraordinaire of the limbic system transcends logic. this abstract made the scene serene, almost palpable. somewhere were the lost pieces of fullness as evidenced by how the way the lips once parted in marvel. all the data confirmed the sense that both internal and external realities are amalgamated into a, usually, post-nocturnal nicety—truly a far better embrace of the truth, albeit stupidly so.

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Entry # 153

Date: Tue, 16 Sep 2014

your poise croons under the bridge, throwing rocking bits to strangers. those you have hit will puke into the river below in agony. the river becomes rueful because of this. but, you take your needs and nutrients from the river. the murky water you drink worsens your poise, further desolating whatever still remains of your inhibition. sometimes, you wonder if there’s a way of elating out this cycle.

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Entry # 154

Date: Wed, 17 Sep 2014

anguish corrupts worse than any carnelian lethargy, but, as i have experienced, a lot of looking inward and meditating in the trenches of thoughtless words, there is a chance to weaken altogether the sensation, or at least turn some of it as excess heat. peering down on myself from an altered perspective might sound obtrusive, but in examining why and how my core diminishes from time to time gives me sense in a way. we have altars no other being can hold. we have temples; and within those complex, we can make anything out of something so perilous.

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Entry # 155

Date: Thu, 18 Sep 2014

You define the counterargument for the stakes that firmly hold the discipline (or the absence thereof) of being an urban crook. And this without hesitation is my main absolution as to why am I in front of you, kissing the gratitude onto your knees one small, dutiful peck at a time. Maybe you would pat my forehead as if patronizing the humility of my expression, but whether this will be the case, I have long since thrown my speculations out the proverbial window; and I have since then assumed that you must be a great thinker in the previous arrangement of your very atoms, for you (and only you, of all the beings I have met) only deflect any stimuli of hooligan-ness away from you with garlands and grace. Personally, I don’t think of it as a bad thing.

In time, everything will forge again routines, and those will break into fractals; and all shall be back to their excellent simplicity where I would like to find myself stuck. Maybe, you’d be there.

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Entry # 156

Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2014

not that i’ve hit a wall, but it seems, now that everyone within proximity is dead asleep, that that is the case: a curious, massive block of hindrance is in front of me. i am done submitting applications. the next step is to do it again the following day, wait for response, get back to the new house, and live with new people. and in the meantime, i can take solace in the brain-firing convulsions of dota4. (remind me to deal with my slouching habit during video-gaming. if only there was a way of auto-correcting the posture. poor spine.)

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Entry # 157

Date: Wed, 24 Sep 2014

it understands the nature of being in the know-how, i mean, this special canine that i have in my hands, it sniffs the fire, be it provincial or sentimental, and somehow, it knows what to do with it. i think of it as a rare phenomenon: a smart, ambitious dog igniting amid several knots of mischief its curiosity one sniff at a time. for a species to evolve into a self-destructive maniac like humans, it is deemed important to have that drive to know more of oneself, one’s surroundings, tools, the world, the space outside the world, and whatever forces, laws, and/or momenta that govern habitability in the plane on which one experiences realities. and, somehow, this dog “has it all”.

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Entry # 158

Date: Tue, 30 Sep 2014

degrees of consciousness dictate a good direction of dreams with a recklessness that does not match anything but something that resembles a proton running the length of a collider at the speed of snail. i think living requires a supernatural effort. am i thinking too obviously?

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Entry # 159

Date: Fri, 03 Oct 2014

i have been demoted from a licensed professional to a tindero, which has its own propensity of edging me—or at least some parts of me—to a certain smack of doom, totally unpalatable for my taste, if you might ask me.

Entry # 160

Date: Sat, 04 Oct 2014

laughter fades at the smallest hint of crass misdirected while i struggle to maintain a smile at meaningless accusations. your laughing at them as if they weren’t Real—a bit aching for the Real, behind the excited grin—says more of the chum that has found its Imaginary residence.

i find the tactlessness of people out of time and out of place, since most of them are fueled by ancient vendetta. this is why one (or probably all) of my friends is a toilet.

i don’t usually not dodge persons but smiling—the feeling is good, though a little tragic, aside from the fact that they are sparks filliping that end just as quick.

i am so many things, yet here you go in the crummy of my compartment to a certain person with no luck or good excuse.

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Entry # 161

Date: Sun, 26 Oct 2014

among the weeks that have me anchored to a(nother) foreign house not ours, it could not get any duller than this one, largely because of monotony. it sucks to be and not to be tethered to the webz, especially when mad thoughts are flung my way for no good reason and with no readily available medium to divert it to.

the old man comes around for a drink, but i despise having to share a drink with him. he gets too hyped and cannot control what he says and how he says them when the spirits have come to meet him dizzy. last time, i just stared at the night sky while he was babbling with his cheap principles, and i could not even recognize the big dipper. the incandescence of street lamps have washed the twinkles of stellar dots. being around this old man when that happens is something i did not dream of.

speaking of dreams, i dreamed of my brother the other night. he had shorter hair. he had styled it so that the front bundle was spiked outwards. anyway, life cannot conjure something from the shiftless.

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Entry # 162

Date: Wed, 20 Aug 2014

Oh, weathered in the most natural position you can assume, epidermis cawing for the monsoon. You court the dregs of precipitation before its droplets even land on the garden.

Greetings from the light brown earth scorched under the gradual movement of solar impatience. Light brown to dark. Dark brown to darker brown. Like how it is in the early levels of Blendoku. The shades step down one point from detachment, towards the pit.

Waking up to a body enfeebled during the wee hours of morning as if sleep had become fatigue. Corpulent figures from dreamscape seem augmented to fit the large space of imagination. Walking up the patio and you find the door locked. Waking up to check your pocket if you had the keys, only feeling stupid after reality had set in.

Dehydrated and weak and irritated by the blatant insinuations of Belphegor, it that none of your delegates would want to know of. You barely managed to pull yourself up and attend to your bodily needs. At times like this, you wish there was an anatomical valet of sorts that would carry off of you your piss and shit without you having to go to the loo.

Consequently, your mind wanders to another unrelated idea: you think if only you could pull your heart straight out of your chest without being messy, and try to see if this tireless, selfless organ really is the epitome of all that is, was, and will ever be romantic. No, it cannot be. In a few forceful forthbringing to fruition, the day will have reached its hottest. Smile because the time is not yet. Pull your eyes shut again and sleep again.

This time, it is about your molar: it wiggles in its place, and you pull it out of your gums. This tooth is habituated by larvae on the underside of it. Waking up so anxious to mumble, “Oh the Anguish!” And so against the mutiny of odds you proceed. You crush the joblessness behind a skinny electronic with relative ease, only this time, you shuffle between review materials and the cacophony of those two lovely hounds. Blessed beings they are, might I add, although you wonder if they were asking for a mild touch.

(Somewhere therein is a pause disguised as a sigh, a pause to be grateful that it will soon be over.)

You are bored and you tell no one but the passers-by about it. And so, out of the blue, you make up at least three stories to inconvenient them, which are the following – 

One: My nana used to call me a constellation boy, and wow, how it snacked on my being. There were instances that I would look into her eyes, and would see mierda swirling through maelstrom. Apparently, my back was perforated with scars from bed bugs and prepubescent zits. I did not know how to deal with bed bugs and back acne at the time. I beckoned the presence of a parent to tell off my nana, but no one came. I don’t blame her, though, my nana. My back was indeed a Picasso’s painting of pus. 

Two*: It is in looking inwardly that I visit the places I have never been, or places that could never be. Imagination, although at best a fickle aspect of the human condition, takes me anywhere. I hope I can really travel soon, you know.* 

ThreeI once put my arm ‘unknowingly’ around the person I was dating, and she told me that I was a Scam, that there is no such thing as ‘unknowingly’ putting one’s arm around the corporeal being of another. I saw her smiling, though. Does that mean anything?

—Such downpour of mad prose skills can flood España Blvd in seconds, but to your dismay, none of them gives a damn about your orations, and so you snap out of it. 

(Another pause. This time, covered in slumber.)

Waking up to an unknown rage seemingly so self-sufficient and sycophantic that it takes only a few moments to figure out that there sits a vermilion on the sclera of the mind’s eye. ‘Tis the weather again you are rambling about. Well, it must be it.

Short stories of Borges did not help last night. Rain dance to the melody of Alesana’s Ambrosia did not help either. What could be that one thing the might assist you in fending off the persistent tapping of ennui and enigma? Eight glasses of water? Ten? No matter how hard you wish for the sun to go away, it just won’t. It stays in its rightful place up in the sky, flashing. It makes you think: a prominence *is *the sun’s way of smiling. It makes you stutter. It blinds you of the morrow. 

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Entry # 163

Date: Thu, 21 Aug 2014

i bide the rigors of impunity with the tempest of glance, but in accord to that personal action which barely, if at all, alleviates the pressure, i am aware of the recent “ghosts” assailing me at the dead of night. however, i will only acknowledge them while they aren’t here yet, and in ambiguity.

forgive me cardiologists for i have sinned. it is not a matter of health but the absence of it. it is not about the elements of dissatisfaction that continuously edit into me how and why i may not be going the right way, although that could fairly be overridden with exercising the will. while the heart is overly stated in literary air and in everyday blah for the wrong reasons (i think so), it is worth noting of the real effects of human emotions upon it.

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Entry # 164

Date: Wed, 26 Sep 2012

there were days like this one when I feel like puttering both everywhere and nowhere, reading signs from fading posts, inhaling the musty air of San Marcelino. always there are students racing for home. too, there are those who prefer to stay behind and wait for the night to set in.

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Entry # 165

Date: Tue, 02 Sep 2014

i did not know what to make of the situation, the postponed surprise for people who initially said yes but in the end backed out, that in that moment when i saw again him after many years, the celebrant’s figure shocked me. from 90 or so kilograms, he thinned down to 40-something in a short period of time.

i remember him making fun of me because of my feral hair-do, suggesting that i’m two white strands shy from being a ‘dyslexic scientist’.

while whole point of this festivity is for him to regain his previous health, i doubt the medicine field has developed perfect treatment for his acute syndrome. i wish him well. i wish him…contentment.

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Entry # 166

Date: Tue, 02 Sep 2014

stumbling upon a love letter i wrote for a previous romance from eons back, returned to me as if the receiver never had imbibed the downward strokes contained within; and, woe, what crap i was then. cringing to sleep.

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Entry # 167

Date: Thu, 04 Sep 2014

bad changelings who lost their spines when faced with the formidable task of skimming off the cholesterol from their brackets; those who wash the grimes off of the plans only to replace them with filth of a higher tier.

there is no moment of clarity for them, i suspect. whatever byte sounds appealing, take it in, take it all in, every detail so long as it harmonizes with the drive. it is too late.

their ability to take everyone down will only be suppressed by an opposition that is, as of yet, still gaining momentum. until then, i hope the grotto does not wear out from the faithless prayers.

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Entry # 168: another dream

Date: Thu, 04 Sep 2014

i watched an orange decay rapidly as if it were on video time lapse—a few days worth of decomposition compressed in a minute—and mycology doing its carnival on the thing. in a matter of moments, it had lost its orangeness and turned into something greige with fungi. i wondered what it would taste like; so i put the specimen in my mouth and began chewing. indeed it was chewy, like a gum, but lacking any recognizable taste. when i spat it all out, to my horror, the pulp comprised—again—maggots.

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Entry # 169

Date: Wed, 10 Sep 2014

Defect the cards on the coffee table that were once of immense value. Being susceptible to differentiating values of blur and red, the cards are now only a pile of pseudo-premonitions, because mysticism is an ailment whose sole aim is to defy my own understanding of the unfeathered logic and sound reasoning, a dagger inside the head of the king of hearts. Abandon—yes, as you have always done, and today, I won’t blame you for getting lost in the tarot audience.

You have a nice-looking palm.

Leave before the seers foretell that I would be coiling over the same lofty mattress, uttering the same chapbook stories from abroad, thinking, maybe sneezing, or maybe wolfing down lines of tar jutting up from my personal box.

But before you do, let me first close my eyes so it would be improbable to envision the scene of your closing the door behind you unlocked.

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Entry # 170

Date: Thu, 06 Nov 2014

the pursuit of contentment is still under construction. i am gaining flabs on my abdomen. my face is starry with infectious dots, so repulsive that i can’t look at my bathroom reflection without plunging further into darker depths. i might decide one morning to go for a lengthy session of brisk walking, cut in front of aggressive drivers just to have this habit of flipping them the bird, but i doubt all these would be my saving grace.

life convulses around the corners of this new edifice, still under construction; the sidewalk people below have their arms above their heads as if those were enough to protect them from falling debris. they wait in a long queue at a local grill joint. we have been cynical towards others’ perspectives as we way in line, trying to enjoy the urban solitude—but how can we when all we do is check up on our smartphones every few moments?

albeit torturous the recent disambiguation of myself might seem to me, it would be absurd to actually think about it that way, to base the morrow’s lifetime regurgitation of the sound and senseless on that.

people become relentless when they attempt to disprove me that we are impractical creatures. to them, it is about how one goes around the corner (whatever that means). to me, it is largely how one distills the water they are to drink (whatever that means). still—i wonder from my concrete, linoleum-covered seat the muteness of employers and why they haven’t gotten to any of my applications yet.

the world outside is built on confusion by confused people: a documentary of a person who almost marturbated his blues away.

dreaming of a certain person i had missed brings back the times of adolescence, my bicycle days. certainly i must record this incident, even through the pervading struggle of phantom mists, because it removed me from the entanglement i was in the night before.

of course, it was of a female, now remodeled by starbucks “sophistry” and maple cadence, but what can i say? i am glad that she is doing well, and that her casting herself closer to contentment has delivered her some deep insights about the meaning of existence. and k-pop. she still bewitches even the most horrendous of men with her noble smile, in or out of dreams.

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Entry # 171

Date: Tue, 11 Nov 2014

terms like ‘minimum wage’ should not be a deterrent when looking over and over for something you i can work on and for, but typically, such is not the case.

in other news, mosquitoes have been artistic. i woke up to a small constellation on my arm, each its own miniature antares.

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Entry # 172

Date: Sun, 16 Nov 2014

i am hooked to the whir of urban traffic drama, how extensively corrupt one plot can be, as if watching a film critic defend its turf but never the essence of what is served. and every time i see one, i will ride it to the end.

one would notice various discrepancies offered within the arguments of both camps, offender and defender, although one might not have rigid constructs of basic street-smarts.

it is obvious: emotions reduce our ability to reason. these drivers decline open-mindedness. maybe it was not taught in their school (or anywhere else for that matter), but it only takes two reckless people to have an accident.

every instance i see leaves an odd spectrum on my overall personality, that which is sometimes mildly savage, oft cavernous as it tunnels through the psyche.

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Entry # 173

Date: Mon, 17 Nov 2014

just when you think disputes dissolved as the hallucinations stir, they do not. they only form a sediment at the bottom. years later, you have a limestone.

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Entry # 174: friendships among netizens, and the unusual discord that follows

Date: Wed, 19 Nov 2014

downright agitating—and the agitation remains exclusively malignant where an epidermis must be—but promising: future friendships arising from cybernetic origins might soften the blow of the lasting preoccupation of the bruised genitalia and immobilized alter egos. sometimes, in order to participate in this growing bubble, there needs to be a certain balance of confidence and diffidence, to give and to take either/or. kind of like maintaining the right pH level in a pool.

to be more unofficial about this, let me tell you what i think, so you can pass this around like it’s hot shit: in many instances, a person conducting an in-depth meditation on what good things are there to say, he or she reanimates premeditated gabs and combines them in a particular sequence such that it makes no sense yet can baffle others. to establish this sense of being, one is willing to garble on fart-thoughts to win a stranger’s approval. sometimes, this does not work out.

amid the distances, one imagines tentatively the benefits; and it is during this quest for conformity that hormones quiz the will if or not it could pass the industrial standards. if we set up rules on which this late-night hip would stand, the morning shall come as menacing as the first rays of sunlight piercing the eyelids. by then, adults would be up to cook the first meal of the day (supposedly). or, they would wander by your room and hear the audible commotions transpiring behind the door. have you forgotten that the earphones you bought last week was inexpensive and therefore below normal. it has been emitting excess decibels outward to your room and further past your door and—look, your parent has opened your door.

“did you even sleep?” asks your parent.

you are taken aback. a glimpse into the future tells you that this might mean you would be grounded for the next two lifetimes if you’re lucky. no time to evaluate the situation. this is worse than the happening. if there is a solution, it needs to barge in right now and take you away from this in a blink.

the laptop beeps and then darkens as it discharges the last of its energy before dying off. pariah, the air whispers, you now drink your snot of a fitting dose—deal with it.

the curtains fall abruptly as the reader now proceeds to question the essence of bonds fortified within a hazy reality created by superficial creatures for other superficial creatures.

a neighbro5 measures the time it takes for an average person to ponder upon this and formulate their own useless posits to be submitted next, next, … , next tuesday. 

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Entry # 175

Date: Wed, 26 Nov 2014

to which worldly substance does an applicant need to ascribe the unnecessarily talkative mouth of an interviewer?

does the interviewer shuffle through the mess of her family when she gets home?

does my not conforming to the latest trends of fashion insult her #ootd, even mildly?

i don’t understand these kind of people, but it seems i would be dealing with them soon enough.

the length of makati avenue is full of filth, occasional vice-grips (like i am) who have to meddle with the metaphors of possible employers before getting ignored at the end of the day. elevators have shiny metals for walls, and inside is where somebody reflects before expelling a gust of afternoon breath. i must be exhausted.

so instead of me complaining further, let me tell you something funny i heard on the street: a guy went to a casino to have some wild night. [and then what?] he approached a table of some betting game and placed a mental bet, since he did not want to get too involved. [then what?] then, the dice were thrown, and the banker won. [and?] he, thus, lost his mind.

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Entry # 176: venting, or so it says

Date: Mon, 01 Dec 2014

i am everywhere… i am everywhere an orphan of yet another dysfunctional family. i tend to gravitate towards households that concern its tenants with familial mishaps. sometimes, the feeling of isolation cannot be prohibited, unless i am preoccupied with two playful poodles. (i am thinking of attaching at least a photograph of each dog, but that’s extra labor.) that is why…

this house has been accepting lady bedspacers, but the slots are currently full. one of the ladies thought it funny to start calling me ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’, even though we both know no spark will come out. if anything confuses me of the totality of the west, it’s the hardening of impulses and, thus, preventive releasing of tension towards humorous housemates.

perhaps, it is a joke she shares with the landlady, or her own way of introducing herself to a malignant cyst (ahem) throbbing usually silently on a chair (ahem). i don’t usually respond to this, but when i do, it’s with a sarcastic half smile. for once, i thought this involvement of words of endearment to hopefully establish rapport is kind of sad, but the thought quickly passed as i rubbed my forehead with a wet pillow.

some masculine person with a darkened skin is the headhunter. his partner has a child with another man whom i have never met. this kid is peculiar, but not as peculiar as i am in most social aspects. this kid is 25 years old, still schooling. feels no shame nor guilt, even as he errs. the landlady must have spoiled him. in any case, this point in time has been a weird ride in a 14-year-old sports car with this family. at least—

i am always present… i am always presented to the structures of society that has been misinformed for decades. media do not help. or maybe they do, but in other ways that favor them.

the sad part about it is, i can’t do much to make a change. nobody quickly shifts into a position where one can do superhuman alterations. no one can be as grand as that. let it be known then that everywhere i go, i see to it that i try to be as invisible as possible.

in the past few days, i have had dancing thoughts about people going about their routines. an old man told me of the proud things he had achieved when he was in college. it went on for days, his storytelling. he could not be stopped, not even with a too-good-to-be-true nod. his declamation almost always bored me every time his former glory came up at the dinner table. almost always, i let him vent. the pressure must have been too great for him to contain, and since the kid of his partner he could not rely on to share his personal thoughts with, i took it as task to be an absorber. a listener. a spongebob squared to the pants.

i guess in expecting it to die down to a more subtle state, the involuntary wobble of human tissues, after all, shall not be muted just because an external null entity is so fed up with repetitive envious accounts.

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Entry # 177

Date: Thu, 04 Dec 2014

fresh grads opting for entry level positions cannot haggle their desired salary with the one in charge. at this stage in their career, the employers choose. and in order to be singled out from others, you, the applicant, improve the credentials, which you might find a bit troubling since you have little to no experience to brag about.

then, you—choose to hide underneath layers of comfort to confront the adversaries that are mashing elevator buttons for fun. elevator rides become more dizzying every time. whose giant’s head must you spit on because of this invention? hide on the thirteenth floor in your fuschia flannel. avoid ghosts and their hands. avoid intriguing questions. avoid stupid inquirers asking you, “why are you sniffing the pages of the book?” although by then, you cannot help but think, “isn’t it imperative to do such?”

you see, i had in me a mental book about life and how often it is plagiarized and other facets of diarrhea that are obviously manufactured by an empty mind; and i was mentally reading it. a woman in corporate attire noticed. why was i sniffing the pages? a bit odd, no? so i guess, it wasn’t that dumb a question.

i sought solace to compromise my nostalgia with nasty pulp reads whilst caffeine-stoked. i detoured my duties away from the sleazed up nooks of mabini, all the while puffing the air that sits by the nostrils. unless you look important, nobody here will give any drag about how you tremble to your appendages.

meanwhile, the complainants of the year, the decembrists, have a lot of lists to publish, mostly typewritten at the back of a coffee shop receipt. what’s more odd, though, is the smell of their smegma caked just around the eyes, and judging from the looks of it, i need not bring my nose any closer to know they’ve been veering from happy thoughts all night.

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Entry # 178

Date: Fri, 05 Dec 2014

the kettle clanks empty throughout the last few waking moments, from the remaining glow of fluorescence to naught. before dream sets in, i wish to partake in a tableau of foodfest, but even that is to think frugally.

my stomach awakens its beast. can’t i just ward the hunger off, or must i get up and scour for change in pockets even when i know there is none?

also, every store owner is asleep. somehow, this predicament places me in a limbo, in limited options and, most likely, hours of rest.

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Entry # 179

Date: Sat, 06 Dec 2014

if it were possible to determine—whether through telepathy or superior biological senses—a foreboding fight between a couple that i won’t be a part of, then i’d like to have that as a weird ability.

it would be a lottery, though.

of unlikely odds declining humanistic stupidity (sometimes abbreviated as ‘wish’).

because there’s nothing more exasperating than getting caught within the vicinity of lover’s quarrel. because the tension is beyond me to manipulate; that is, i hate intervening. because i don’t want to hear arguments from either sides, knowing full well they would crash on their own bottomlessness. i suppose such wishful thinking can only come true had there been a glitch in the making of this simulation.

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Entry # 180

Date: Mon, 22 Dec 2014

oldster in a warehouse of misguided colleagues: he thinks of himself as a shepherd and the peeps his sheep. and i, the wolf in woolen guise. it could be distracting to isolate this deflated ego. necessary, nonetheless.

he speaks of sociopathic tendencies a non-conformist may have as he gazes into me, as if searching for clues. what can i do? is there something to be done? a wolf lost amid the disconcert of trees, their rustling leaves barely guide this furry one away from fire.

and then the stairs would thunder from the hit of footsteps—someone is coming down. a savior? someone to pull me from this awkward convo? or need i excuse myself? clocks seem bored. the tables. anything that has been absorbing the details of this debate would have grooves on its surface. interestingly, no phonograph that can be mounted with narra tablets has been invented yet.

still, i commute towards the front of the store. someone with short hair passes by but comes back to take a second look. we exchanged words of humility and kindness. i know i can never jump to her level, but you know what, a dude like me has nothing to lose…

the night often beckons my presence. i am theirs to be shifted. i wait my avalon to drift me from the haughty perversions of nails as the last drop of brandy-ice mix paves way to muchness, while i recover from the stitches, while a new pen forges through the woods. but in reality, it is the bladder that begs to be emptied. sometimes, deliberately, i get back to sleep, certain that i have forgotten a wonderful dream before having the chance to jot it down with a song that curbs the feels 180 degrees. like giving a dog a bath that it always is a drag.

a small poodle in heat that i must always jerk with four fingers on his side picks himself up to climb up my knees and, with oblivious pupils, seeks affection. pets have their way of making themselves needed to be kneaded. greyish muons traverse in a certain frequency before retinas are able to process them and relay the data to the main processor. they say that knowing is scraping any artistic value without aesthetics, but is that possible? to assign light over the dimness of creation? in order to evaluate a stimulus, it requires a good working rubric, many of which, if not really that scholastic the subject, are derived from experience.

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Entry # 181

Date: Tue, 23 Dec 2014

the household supplies are divided among the residents accordingly as december turns deep-red sherry-flavored molotov. i am aware of the frosty blades that have shied away from the bellows of an old flame, although there is not much for me in it. besides, i don’t have the right to interfere between the unspoken discussions of two grown-ups living together in an apartment they—we—cannot afford.

i haven’t been told the details, but judging from the recent dispositions of the involved individuals, the quarrel seem to have begun from a long-buried dispute. sometimes, i wonder if civility can be exhausted, and if babble would soon engulf the silence once the human condition’s ability to withstand grudges had been put out. and if that happens, will i be sent packing to make room for their “adjustments”?

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Entry # 182

Date: Thu, 25 Dec 2014

i’ve watched Toy Story plenty of times, and it’s only the most recent one that i finally got to laugh at this one brief scene between mr. potatohead and hamm in which the latter altered his face to emulate a picasso painting. hamm “[didn’t] get it” (as many kids don’t). mr. potatohead, said “you uncultured swine!”

took me, what, more than a decade to get that?

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Entry # 183

Date: Sat, 27 Dec 2014

glitches only govern the basic functions of this machine. i wish to printscreen to have some proof, but the spots, i found out, are physical. when i log off, i return to the familiar stone that waits me.

guimba is a nice exile. such a shame that i have only found about this place recently, when mother finally became strong enough to tug me towards the provincial bus.

also, i found myself lounging at a big old couch, old as dusk, dusty as heavens. waves of red and green curtained the daylight from the world that had been searching for proper materials with which it will create a new bolder one; in the end, it revolved around the same point, and everything seemed good again, but we all know it won’t be that simple.

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Entry # 184

Date: Sat, 27 Dec 2014

how hearts are broken idk. televised versions of debate about love often includes that one pumping organ, but when will humanity shift to a more accurate approach? that it is not the heart that manipulates emotions?

maybe in metaphors i can acknowledge such “youthful” sentiments, but come on.

the heart? leave it be. it has grown tired of your personifications. the heart that so you claim to be the core of all feelz might one day leave you for another entity, another soul.

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Entry # 185

Date: Sun, 04 Jan 2015

finally crawling for the narrow space that is sometimes mistaken as a bed to cool the overworked eyes down. if the monsoon whistles again at daybreak, tell it to hush me deeper into slumber. so bear with me in this contingency, will you?

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Entry # 186

Date: Mon, 05 Jan 2015

do you ever feel like you’ve been sitting on a cliff, watching the breakfast flock go about their itinerary just a few skies from your point, when amid fantastic solitude an imp appears from nowhere and whispers unto thee to try free falling? you say no to its persistence.

the soft slap of a palm on your forehead does not convince the visitor. it belongs from within you and that a mediocre push-away sets not off its nagging mood. and insists on you pursuing this malicious endeavor for no reason, to fall into the depths below. you try to ignore him because your intent is simple: to watch the flock fly. and

you wonder now how it feels to soar with wings. the cliff is high, you see; and the lunch is still a few good albums away. you are now wondering.

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Entry # 187

Date: Mon, 12 Jan 2015

lying in the lower bunk has its -isms for me to think about. as inexpensive as it sounds, casually snapping my fingers to the buzz of jitters not really is la vie en rose that fixes this natural game of waiting for the fall of ripe aching upon the bored being. i root for something else.

everybody is in their position, and from this point forth, no one would be bothering me as i rest and look up for a pseudo-skyline. let the brother confuse himself by the machine he condemns; let the sister screech at him because his temper smashes the mouse, which is outright stupid. and so i accept the wantons of daily provisions: they are beyond my mugging.

sometimes, when i get too quiet, a sibling would look over their shoulder to check up on me. and they would catch me staring upwards sans electronics at hand. how craggy the mind can get, originally beseeching a posh scent from the past to stimulate perception, although the eye gazes at woes dimensional, and dead becomes it.

i have my realities sorted and filed, always ready for me-times like this, yet people always try to bring me back to the one that best suits their lifestyles. they classlessly accuse me of being a daydreamer, but i’d rather be that than exclaim every once in a while a broken cuss for the hungry and poor.

i notice, then, some sort of writing, done as if by fevered hands, or someone with unintelligible qualms. it is written on a cardboard that was placed underneath the mattress of the top bunk. “auntie pura was here,” squiggled awfully in rotating lines, and it appeared to have been done on purpose.

but what is the purpose? the name to which the endearment belonged has long been dead. it could be, therefore, a prank by a misfit with nothing better to do. here, he thought of 300 dying people’s parting displays of annoyance for the world, reduced merely to four words. sadness and sickness go skinny: structures of the passing minds, if inked, look doped on cardboard.

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Entry # 188

Date: Fri, 30 Jan 2015

first, an indiscernible figurine that walked against light the source of light—an incandescent ode to dancing in yellow shame atop a wicked wax—abruptly shifted towards the observer and displaced itself behind him. this, thus, seized a vivid image of the figurine: some petite lady in dandelion shirt, all noble as basked she in the idea of slow walk…

i will now slight you with a list of notes that i have intended for the subject flora of the previous garbage paragraph. i do hope that you’d assume now a more malevolent attitude towards reading this personal matter.

  1. in submitting to the grips and grabs of a foreign blizzard, i have failed myself to put back this intermittent commotion to nether past. what frustrations stir the blood cannot be put into words; and so in the interest of ‘fresh start’, i will try to follow a diagram, one that is as basic as lye and as equally damning to human skin, which i doubt i can follow.
  2. i assume that this will be a perpetual haunting of illusions that the subconscious could not let go. the practice of abolishing you from the furnace of time-long-gone demands disciplinary diving towards the parabolic vertex of all cosmic processes.
  3. other arguments will rise with your next apparition, of this i am sure. and the images will be more crisp as they present themselves in slideshow form. must i resist.
  4. i refuse to disengage from the inviting dullness of television. this is good; i will be dumbed down and numbed up.
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Entry # 189: maria susafe

Date: Sat, 31 Jan 2015

lilt sometimes condones that often grizzly obstruction of a solitude twisted. the rise and fall of enthusiasm was okay. there were days that i thought i could accomplish many things. but it was the subsequent fall, from which i could no longer ascend, that nearly defeated the purpose of my then-thesis; and minus that needed push from my colleagues at the time, the energy i required to at least finish this main task with grace depleted gradually. the paper became a heap of indiscriminate use of phrases and adjectives *ahem* that would only bear meaning if the whole mess was to be thrown into the smirking bowels of typhoon.

i don’t know if it was just a phase, or i was just too saturated by the commotions amounting to five years worth of intellectual bullshitry.

believe me when i tell you this: i almost did not make it to the finals.

some days, i grew up. some days, i just grew old. life does not necessarily have to be so profound all the time, but i could not carry the weight of being in such a low point that even i have failed to describe understandably.

i was nearing my graduation, and to be honest, the renewal of year seemed to have renewed my tardiness. huge chunk of it had been spent looking out the window, perturbed by a dilemma of whether or not i would go to school. in the days that i did not, i made a 500-word-or-less reflection why, and posted some of it, edited here on tumblr.

there are many things about perfectionism. for me, it’s about how a journey is processed carefully through the lens of human sensibilities; that asymptotic arrival towards one’s ideals, almost hitting the ceiling (if you aim high). for me, too, it’s the opposite of what i had experienced: it’s about how i negated duties, and in turn, i had been the subject of my own anomaly, as i metaphorically lie on a floor to think about the why’s of why’s.

i took a few pictures of myself in that black gown to remember the stuff i really do not want to remember.

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Entry # 190

Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2015

in the fluids heaving there comes the manifestation of poverty, arguably a messy by-product from the previous night’s partaking of dinner. the colossal bit that i ingested as substitute for temporary satisfaction birthed seemingly new species of microorganisms in my stomach. gluttony crafts special repercussions for the sorts who devour mindlessly through cobwebby viands. and now i feel arachnids terraforming my insides. is that normal?

aptly, must i recall now: i ate the mid-section of the fish; a tall guy ate the head part, quite particular on not missing the eyes; sister munched on the tail section; and who ate what.

the servings came in calculated proportions; however, the calculating process always is in need of stitches. the knife chopped through and across, doing away equal divisions, because who needs equality when you’re boiling with dysphoria.

midnight hallucination usually suffers in rarity if you’re not sober or far from being afflicted by residual disinclination for vanity and get-rich-quick schemes. sometimes, in order to dream big, one must have read several artsy textbooks on decadence, however atavistic its philosophies may be.

in my case, having no dreams it reduces the chance of me getting a complete sleep. i am shocked by the passive creativity fed to me in prim intervals, more obvious when i’m not aware of it. these hallucinations fuel my, uh, creativity. but before i digress, the more important thing here is: the guts part, in much postulating, did this to me.

i awoke from a rowdy rest of rolling into an urge to visit the porcelain, which, in this apartment complex, is situated outside the flat and is shared with other tenants. trysts, or their bastardized versions, howled from the inside of one of the cubicles, like the sound of felines fighting for scraps at night. i could not press on during this period. i was a swelling bladder. i was digestion mutiny, sleep deprived, restlessly overusing olfactory nerves to separate the good smell from the bad.

i remembered the stories of Poe, vanilla horrifying and tiresome, still teasingly haunting me with the image of that one black cat.

as for regulating the movement, i would not so much as walk a step further into the yellow palls that divide the causeway and cubicles, simply because of few distorted frequencies misplaced in air, misheard in ear. maybe the candor air startled me with its din; or the thunderous bang of door failing by one of its hinges reminding me of its much needed repair; or maybe the sound of what i thought were cats. whatever—but the unknown always insists to instill a fizz beyond our working knowledge. the unknown is always steps ahead.

how one morning sounded like doubts unfurling on the yodels of chest, and to refuse to acknowledge its presence gives me something to do.

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Entry # 191

Date: Wed, 11 Feb 2015

“a coin comes from many miraculous events,” thought the guy.

an iron knob screeched counter-clockwise as friction proved to be more than just a thing. the shower spurted a few sprays before coming to malfunction; it was dead again, and someone from the housemates must have emptied the bottle of shampoo in the toilet. although, now, in honesty, there is no shower. there is only the faucet and the rusty iron wires that hold it in place against the wall.

“the history of coins extends from ancient times to the present, and is related to economic history, the history of minting technologies, the history shown by the images on coins, and the history of coin collecting. coins are still widely used for monetary and other purposes,” said the wiki article.

nevertheless, in this idle time, he mused on some topics that have been proven invaluable to human existence.

“titanium is a strong light metal that is corrosion resistant. It could be used for coins, and has been used to strike medals. however, there are problems in producing a sheet of the metal with a smooth enough surface for coinage purposes, and this increases the cost of producing coins in bulk using this metal. as the basic cost of the raw metal is high as well, other cheaper alternatives are more attractive to governments!” said tony clayton, metals used in coins and medals.

it was his time of self-love. too, it was the time of bathing, and in bathing one can accomplish an array of activities. at one moment, this guy that i am talking about soared an intestinal road of a vast foreign land without having him leave the definite coziness of shower room. at another, he recited in multiple languages the lyrics of that one pop song he despised. the problem was, he knows only two languages. 

today, he saw a coin. what of it, then? and he stumbled upon that lost coin on the soap rack, now pinkish as it was smudged into an ugly shape. he thought of coughing up a proper essay about coins, but first, he must rub himself with that pink soap and wish away either apathy or stretch marks, whichever is easier to deal with.

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Entry # 192: impossible tweets

Date: Sun, 15 Feb 2015

when everybody knocks off their heads onto a soft pillow, when lights are put out and the light emissions themselves cease to flicker, what prayers have you to utter to shield yourself from yourself against a foreboding corrosion of broods, that this is just an ordinary episode of loneliness, solvable, measurable? that it isn’t deep enough to reach the network of graft beneath this place our own? that when you come again ‘here’ ‘right now’, everything will calm you, and you will no longer feel anxious about whichever way the river flows? perhaps, you are patient in your working out a proper sentence for the current to carry, one so potent structure- and substance-wise that it is immune to the mocking of agnostic sputum.

more and more the penance is becoming vibrant in coming up with excuses to explain its being. now, it must be proven—or rather, i must prove—that it is for the better.

don’t you think that postmodern gibberish ousts even the chicest essays about romance ever penned? i do, sometimes; but not because i myself try to practice blandly this approach in my style with words. i simply think there are other ways in professing one’s adoration for that special somebody one cannot in any thread of fate pinch, without ever having to tackle the essence. this unpopular notion leads me to believe that, should i ever publish a book, only a handful (if i’m that lucky) would every buy and read them. out of those, only one might like it (i am looking at you, ma; be proud of your son). and same goes for my contemplation on filmmaking—no, i don’t think i can make it work that way.

black-and-white films from previous decades give me a hint of how a fraction of perceived reality could be distorted. exactly like a dream, but more fictitious.

in godard’s vivre sa vie (viewed best, may i include, only in french tongue and verbosity from first scene to fin), it was not explained openly how and why nana, the main character, became a prostitute. susan sontag wasn’t so sure either. well, she said, “Godard’s films are particularly directed toward proof, rather than analysis. Vivre Sa Vie is an exhibit, a demonstration. It shows that something happened, not why it happened. It exposes the inexorability of an event.”

whatever it lacks in the sense department (to me), it compensates for the wonderful tunes that accompany the images. i have yet to do some looking up on titles of those tracks, as i hope soon to extend the list of marvels in my music library.

it could be that this jean-luc wanted the viewers to arrive at different conclusions, giving the story a more pitchfork dynamics.

it is everything ‘art’ in the fair game of naught and all and whatever values there are in between.

serve into mind again the rants of that one huge man i so codenamed vito here. done? good. the wide vicinity of his mind remains detach from films hailing from countries that are neither filipinx or american. going on from this point, is it assumptive of me to conclude that he might not want to probe the multi-billion permutations of art?

but art releases; it imprisons; it invokes familial hurt, a redness along the banks of sclera, akin to imagined lamentations a relative might have caused; it is a series of patterns swaying with the artist’s feelz, be it contemporary or something as neolithic as granite; it is a word repeated over and over again until it loses its original meaning; art is it.

it’s a good thing, i guess, that in the second house there is no internet connection. i fear that the moment they call the linemen to install one, i’d be live-tweeting about every black-and-white movie i see on cable channels.

my guess is, it would be chunks and chunks of lazy analyses underscoring the parts that could only serve me and my purposes. my attempts at astute remarks regarding said films—140 characters tops per woe—i imagine, would be lost in a timeline devoid of cohesion, unless recalled in such a fashion that they, when summoned all together, would arrange themselves in a neat fix. still, without doubt, each tweet would breeze by on unknowing fellows. however, on a slim chance that someone would opt to interact with them, methinks it be worded thusly: “@iooare stop livetweeting hbo ffs!”

*flushes the toilet*

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Entry # 193

Date: Thu, 26 Feb 2015

i right you from a faulty mental artifact to a physical evidence, as ivory as matriarch. i am, in a way, a Ross of my own sort, exhuming thee from the ageless depths of subconscious.

flaws demand the attention of gavel-yielding souls. and the case would have been worse, in my opinion, had you been dressed less promiscuous inside this passing miasma.

ah, but it’s all a fancy nightmare, and Agnes was your name, although honestly, i didn’t imagine that you can be love and tears at the same time.

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Entry # 193

Date: Sat, 28 Feb 2015

you bore me. you bore me unto the many matters that often mend those disadvantaged scars, consequently leaving perforation on an edifice already tesselated by iron bruises. most of the time, you only speak in spiky copper tongue, only that you do so with amour. at times, you make me wretchedly happy using blithely your opulent reservoir of sophia, or what is still authentic of it.

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Entry # 194

Date: Sun, 01 Mar 2015

the look upon the sky could not be perceived as an exact veneer of crude oil except with decay of facial flesh on a previous thursday that, as usual, came and vvent: an evening full of hopes, only to be dotted by statements going beyond morale, and the feeling one could feel a little less like slush rolling and tumbling in that metal container, lights a-blipping.

ferdie helped himself with a beer, and so did we. this was over the bay, where sundry of silica flowed uncensored to the peeled eyes of men, most of whom were balding decrepits. there the sounds of brass and electronica humped together to make a noise akin to the talent of katy perry.

i should have known that i could not expect any good here, even from the guys who dragged me.

i had then a twitching edge; i didn’t imagine this experience to be caustic to the virginal sense—this menial side of paradise, this smoking zone dark as soot, only serving as a stopover for crooks who dupe themselves with light before plunging altogether to the chants of unholy hours.

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Entry # 195: sh(t txt p0st/$

Date: Wed, 04 Mar 2015

“i finally saw this post again!” said the loco tumblrite. the moments wasted on scourging through this unknown were met with the asymmetry of astonishment. if it were of the good type or bad, i will not tell. but such was a progression of moments from one beat leading to the next.

the biggest disappointment in life is when good shows have a bad episode like i waited a week and u give me this shit

he rushed up to examine the post, its authenticity versus the last time he saw it, which was not that long ago. his breath, nearly depleted, remained excitable, because who knew this would happen—this seemingly sick humor parted unto his essence by forces ethereal, unforgiving—again?

After high school you realize you were only friends with some people because you saw them five times a week.

it was a street lamp post.

i don’t understand why some people want the power to freeze things or fly or be invisible dude imagine if you could stop time. like you could literally just stop time for a year and just do nothing or write a book. or you could stop time at night and literally have a full night’s worth of sleep in less than a second. you’d have so much time to do whatever you want

you see, he was fanning through the contents of his fast-paced dashboard, reblogging text posts from a user—all the while walking blindly. 

i live by a rule that if google can’t answer your question it cannot be answered

he had been lost for about an hour now, and he wouldn’t have noticed it until he finally looked up and checked what the eerie silence was about. and there stood lonely a street lamp post, its orange beam barely radiant against this nightly backdrop. nobody around, not an ether nor wisp. only multitudes of trees several meters from him on both sides, posturing themselves intimidatingly as a reminder for him not to go deeper into them. but into them he went anyway. he couldn’t think of any part of the city where trees bloomed lush yet with dark motivations, that is, if indeed he were still in a city.

ok but platonic forehead kisses

the surge either made his shouting too vehement or made his larynx unresponsive. whatever the case, the trees proved to be misleading throughout this curious case of dejection. he did not know that his not tapping to the commotion of subconscious wits was causing him to circumnavigate this ghost-place. alas, back he was, to this spot where a light-emitting mad lamp waited—for him, it seemed.

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Entry # 196

Date: Fri, 06 Mar 2015

everybody has their eyeballs sheening as they shed the softer, outer shells inwardly without making a fuss of it at the heart of a city.

everyone practices stereognosis inside the jingling confines of pockets and/or purses, as if to show others how hip they look, which, of course, is just another contrast of how they really are. and through the tunnels of head, a jittery song plays them apart: a popular message to shepherd them into a flash mob of mambo.

there is no shelter against this; everybody is bound to be infected. and through the myopic complex conduiting an individual to another, the song stammers with the malleable memento to be imparted as a “unique part of me that i am willing to share”.

does this song pull out a piece from a person, and everyone gladly partakes in it?

everybody crumbles patiently inside themselves, and it brings on them the needed jumpstart to topple the dominoes of convulsing greed for anger-turned-tears or dysfunction as a general trait of being parvenu.

and then, there are annotations brewing—of the same suspicious minds that just won’t quit on giving up. the strength. the endurance. and behind it, the fad. the magic. no more is there sameness in circles with which everyone draws their overlapping charts; only similarly shaped couture that, if placed adjacent to one another, the body would correspond to machine, and the mind to the terabytes announcing themselves properly working.

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Entry # 197

Date: Sat, 14 Mar 2015

i’ve got two tickets to iron maiden, baby. come with me friday, don’t say that you never in your life could have thought that my preferences in music are solely fitting to whatever preconceived notions you might have had of me, that the genres i am currently dying to listen to follow a format you might have based on my appearance and/or personality, neither of which sums up the entirety of my being. if, however, you did, i am inclined to assume that you’re a complete goodie-two-shoes douche, douche. i’m just a teenage dirtbag baby like you.

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Entry # 198: character development?

Date: Sat, 14 Mar 2015

“why is it not funny for a mathematician to do drugs?”

the last time he was this anxious was the first day after the pupil died of sadness under his watch. it has been about a month now, and the geometry teacher is reeling back from his comforts. he feels especially down today. what of self-forgiving trait and its biting tendencies against hope?

good thing this saturday blows temperate winds, to calm his finicky requirements, although it is debatable still whether they want to be calmed. another good thing: he wouldn’t have to worry about teaching kids their proving lessons. not that the order would have allowed him inside the school premises this time of the year or ever. or any other institution for that matter.

he grabs a small bag of salt-appearing powder that he shopped from a spooky meat the other evening. a narra table at the center of his office waits for him to prep his line on it. he fishes his kit from a drawer and starts to assemble his little event. 

something snaps in him and he descends from his anxiety to the forlorn depths of psyche.

"…a line is a set of points arranged in a straight manner and is extending in opposite directions without end…"

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Entry # 199

Date: Mon, 16 Mar 2015

three nights of practice driving around ayala is three nights worth of planning the ‘drive’ muzak playlist that doesn’t come to be. at least i have made friends with the traffic lights.

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Entry # 200

Date: Thu, 19 Mar 2015

beautifully deceased flora left at my plate bloomed at the afterlife. a zest of lemon to feel clean while knowingly you cling to the scent.

in the shedding of veiny antlers, or, lo, the weary eyes of men, evidence of majesty is nothing. i mean, the excessive malfunction of an apologia by the agents of plants.

nature must have been working overtime to even stand the gnawing confusion. do you fight when jaws are fangs-deep in your throat? do you seek vengeance?

i am on a playground in a purgatory plaza. i am with gout and a messy tuft. feeling spiritual me, sounding like a creepy-crawly inflection; i shine inward. my leisure is to warp the trees to my whim.

i am a hare disadvantged, hare traversing uphill against a sky full of hungry eagles. i am a goose beside a friend. the light rays freely tamper the insides of translucent spores and lush vegetation.

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Entry # 201: last night in holy trinity

Date: Thu, 19 Mar 2015

to be unable to cry in a funeral parlor, because to cry means very little to the ones too far from heart;

to be warmed up only by peanuts and other fingers; to drink the stalest coffee and imagine the marquee of heavens;

to laugh at a grandmother who impulse-bought a coffin for herself;

the tragedy, for me, is missing the chance to know these dead people better, to blame the slow forward motion of arrows that delayed me to summon myself in this leveled existence; and not death itself;

the tragedy, for me, is to know only the good memories from bereaved relatives, and not of blocked-out bad versions;

the dead in his casket surrounded only by misty eyes of others and their fondness of him;

my whistling rock tha house through the vacant halls to feel something;

a planetary woman mistaking me as a love interest, only to abate her desires after telling her i am a family relative;

to see how a daughter aches behind the shades; to feel how stoned she must be;

my companions did not let me hold the wheels.

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Entry # 202

Date: Thu, 19 Mar 2015

dear, a tuesday fellow sought in his tongue to pressure me with the prospects of rising from the rashes. i had to held back joints to launch his throat; acting on it would only provoke the man, worsening my situation.

“what are you doing with your life?” he asked.

i explained how my undergoings proceeded down the void, though would he hear any of it? this for him always outweighs the reality until its very defining part suits the purposes of his last few neurons.

the way he speaks has always been condescending, so much so that tolerating any din he regurgitates is difficult. this is the problem, i think, and not me. his willingness to pull down people to his standards.

indeed, the guy lives a difficult life. he continues not to divorce himself from the mock complexity of ancient rites.

instead of instigating rave, the stock response was to shut him out of my new wave yodel and let his old bones be. meanwhile, i regret having to hold back this little could-have-been monologue:

to dismiss the infernal luxury of universal entities tugging at limbs and hacking into fields commends only so much kudos, if not the salvation, of the placid of wills. things do find ways to test entropic processes, whether a certain one is fixed by the aesthetics au naturel; but in order to place objects, living or otherwise, in locations that would be least aggressive with the shifts of forces, one is bound to commit to the syntax. else, wade with a chosen group of spirits.

our functions are our own, that i’d like to believe. however, in instances within which i am involved, even indirectly, i see to it that my next course of action enables the unraveling of coils to intercept any predetermined claims, and ultimately convert such into conditions to foster even the most basic mores.

we overestimate ourselves through our cartoonish interconnections, here and out there.

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Entry # 203

Date: Sat, 21 Mar 2015

the solid base on which we ground our footing is vitalized by the sump system of the floors above the heads. that is not to say that a character glued here cannot pull their body to a comfortable wrung, but to do so requires, evidently, a serious inkling towards detachment from the abrasive taste of elite, albeit the natural response is to initially seek stability.

regardless of stimulus, whether perverse or otherwise, our ilk, being social creatures, tend to situate themselves alongside a trend. and nowadays, trends often promote the former.

the dilemma to be seen here needs people to comprehend that while, yes, it is okay to be part of the accepting crowd, their behavior should transcend from time to time a little beyond the fundamentals. however, that’s not to say that we only get by on stuffing our cranial compartments with cheap sophistication, since it is impossible to live on abstracts alone…

when a tercentennial grudge made port from europe, some of the indigenous people already surmised the vehemence behind the (un)godly hue of blanche that was, and still is, as cunning as its con. we must deal then with the predicaments of reality. it takes a bit of effort to rattle the head away from papal incantations that would only make matters worse. same goes for pushing your thoughts to some dope with a big round head.

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Entry # 204

Date: Mon, 23 Mar 2015

and on deliberation of the lightest blur we brought a brief bravura to the one who rests now among the skeletal frames reduced to ashes. still i could not come up with sincere sadness nor was i able to remember to take some of the burden. i was completely unaware that the primary reason of my being so dumped had something to do with my already being pinned helplessly down on my belly whilst tears from an encumbered, sleepless spirit ravaged the floorboards.

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Entry # 205

Date: Wed, 25 Mar 2015

anywhere a certain type—for there are many types outside of science and art, although many of which poses minimal credibility—of gravity mechanizes the cathodic riffraff of capital punishments.

i went to my annual graveyard shift and there i saw a growing shrub from out the crack of a femur. why this particular thigh bone was not in its tomb i knew not. the mystery, however, lay not on the bone alone, but also on how a green thingy could thrive from the lack of nutrients therein. were there generations that skipped altogether the maneuvering of evolution, only to emerge much, much later in tragic-stricken provinces?

a few woofs of rookie ligament-consuming deferred and discarded seemingly attempting to snap me out of my job? no. i knew better. if ever supernatural workings were to clef my logic, that must be, like, super-duper-wooper-natural.

an army of fire ants disappeared marrow-ward, where rings patiently retraced the lineage. the swarm marched forth like a red lightning whipping the sides of spruce, originating from the hollows below to the nether spaces. i grubbed my supper and observed the unfolding:

arthropod trunk yearned for morning light, but it was still hours away from dawn. i left my waste beside me and procured from my knapsack a flashlight. something about this awful plant was magnetizing. its starch-like color, instead of a shade of verdant, emitted a boiling stench similar from months-old stew buried meters deep beneath a rotten beach. the branches formed a cage that housed a beat-up stache – only at closer look did i see its spine, calcified, with leaves poised to catch the lower jaw. stars would fit in eye pockets had they been rid of fruit maggots.

hour 3—paler and paler went stroke of beams onto openings. this very sentinel, its entire architecture that was gothic by design yet deceiving by nature, marveled the disconcert in my pupils, while i in turn saw nothing in its, save for the damnation imminent.

hour 6—against the glint of vision, its body, almost phosphorous then but when red vines began choking the plant, swelled now for the vapors escaping me. do you ever wonder why plants behave different from us? hasn’t that always been the case? i wrestled with my idle thoughts on my final hour, and the young now-tree seemed to pull its roots from earth. i sat on my butt as it approached me slower yet closer. for a moment, it placed a balete hand on my right thigh, the etudes shortly cut the scene.

a mourning followed my wake; a few woods of life roll deep into dirt. the city on fire—from the rubble columns of clay sprout. new cavities blossom on my shift for the next intern to record.

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Entry # 206

Date: Sun, 29 Mar 2015

twenty-two solar revolutions, and still the purpose drifts along the cosmos, each point in spacetime never to be real again except in theory and/or imaginative narration from a more artsy goon. i was given two books to read under the influence of stagnation, and i thank my sister for that. so there is that. yay/

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Entry # 207

Date: Sat, 04 Apr 2015

in a recent nightmare, i was a bum (which i find almost prophetic), and sleep or rest had me arrested in front of a beauty parlor. a man approached the parlor, seemingly with something bad going on upstairs, as evident by the way he strode forward. what stirred me alert was, when upon examination, in his right hand he gripped a pistol. he noticed my getting up, and, perhaps afraid of my unveiling his evil, he turned to me and shot three bullets across my collarbone, much like an ellipsis and the pause it offers. never have i convinced myself to wake up so quickly.

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Entry # 208

Date: Mon, 06 Apr 2015

the credentials of a friend remains refutable when their suggestive pessimism knocks the jenga blocks and makes a song out of the debris.

take ecclesiastes for example: how his virulent tongue did not spare a page (or so) inside the divine text as he included his fascination on running after the moving air, and then saying how it was all useless to him. i guess, my friend, the same thing goes for me.

only when the faint gleam of reflected sunlight at night obliges itself of touching the sublime crevices of the hypothetical mind frame will you learn of my dishonesty towards the way the chef prepares any supper for me. that to me it is impossible to consume, as i myself am inside a really bad vortex of consumption.

every movement feels slow. i stretch my body over the strong traction of dirt; and a hundred slugs swarm inside my hungered mouth, their slime wronging local cavities.

you mull on the enigmatic injustices you find frustrating for quite some time now. that is the proper way to gain a friend but lose a limb.

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Entry # 209

Date: Tue, 07 Apr 2015

the promise of sad pop love songs, however uninventive their promises to fix, lasts more than eight hours, more than enough for a hundred restroom round trips, in which the final cubicle at the far end is not reached by visible light, perfect for checking social media accounts that are far better on patching up holes.

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Entry # 210

Date: Fri, 10 Apr 2015

except during the inert hours when the sun sits godly at zenith, bonifacio global city (aptly shortened to ‘BGC’), despite how it condescendingly approximates wayward wallets, is not so bad a place to meet dark-lipped by-passers with whom one could share a moment of silence.

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Entry # 211

Date: Tue, 14 Apr 2015

the kind of love we know, which to the untrained nerve bundles is immune to defiant tissues, posthumously sprouts from the desultory of vanity.

the plight of mental sacs, as they inwardly project menial staccatos of gyrating imagined mouth-to-mouth conversations, inconvenience my punching the jaw off of its fixation.

o the things that come when i am idle! i could star on the next sofia coppola film if it weren’t for the lack of dullness in my hair and skin.

one thing, though: i don’t trust my kagwapuhan enough to ensure me a slot in the limelight. not that i showcase any to start off. kagaguhan siguro, oui…

…perhaps the ill-conditioning of proverbial stiffness—a contrathetical manifestation of some moldy levite code—attests as to how i am enslaved by the late, late reckons of the same frame yet of a mythical chamois variant.

hello, you, down there. are you feeling especially downcast this time?

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Entry # 212

Date: Thu, 16 Apr 2015

a recent encounter with a crowbar brought me back to my sailor-mouthed adolescence when i first knew of the taciturn physicist, gordon freeman. how could he swing such (relatively) heavy a tool as though it were bamboo stick?

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Entry # 213

Date: Tue, 21 Apr 2015

on some occasions i delight on the crash-course cleansing of being, that quick dopamine rush, so exuberant in my own expression that this type of happiness consequently smudges out of picture some episodes, but only as long as the moment.

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Entry # 214

Date: Tue, 21 Apr 2015

a classless zymurgy of the lovely breakup aftermath, coupled with cognitive mapping that bears some semblance to that movie about wanting to erase someone from memory’s form, zooms in on the restlessly anticipating vito and his pursuit of one lani. as the mushiness of tenderloins transsubstantiate into a woeful shell, the man decided that i be his wingman (coughs), one who regularly checks the evolution of the second chin (coughs); the minimum-wage supporting actor; me the minion.

i can hear through the creaks of gate how the woman sighs intensely. her son—not vito’s btw but of another faceless, indifferent guy—becomes increasingly prejudiced by the reappearing of the man who once almost anthologized the refurbishing of an old room back at the old house. i understand his qualms toward his stepfather: he, vito, is a seasoned cutting edge against the monotonous espresso-quaffing, forked-tongued douche like him, the son.

when vito and lani called it quits, there i was, skimming already my tomes for reference materials that deal with these kinds of things. i wanted to call the guy who knows this guy who knows this guy and ask for advice. abashed for myself to be caught amid the whirlwind of these on&off sweethearts, i tirade with others who nod that not only is this dipsomaniac affair partly non-convalescent, it is also partly false.

and so: spare me the visual effects and digitized vinyl scratches press-released for many a black shiny box, because i for one don’t promote feigned nostalgia. had i the chance, i’d let them throat the minuscule head of pride and claim the experience as either real or righteously sanctimonious, depending on their combined mood, for their prized profession.

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Entry # 215

Date: Tue, 12 May 2015

it always begins with coming to form in front of a bookstore, when all else simply passes by with me slightly off the center of it. and so, formally speaking, i found myself in a bookstore. in my case, even forcing the brain to beckon from phrenology bytes of blurry memory yields no results as to what were the exact circumstances that placed me inside that claustrophobic stall except that, perhaps, it had something to do with my not having anything better to do at that time. perhaps, it was one of those open-ended scenarios i got caught up in when the residual glamour that thankfully was college had not faded much yet.

this particular book i got while under the influence of boldfaced impulsive buying brings to me a squishy kind of queasiness that, at times, disappoints me, because many things in it can only devise satisfaction if shared, preferably read, to someone of the same wavelength as i, which my current predicament nay permits.

what makes it more special, though, aside from the fact that i practically stole it at a low price in BookSale, is the state of its leaves: that the very pages i intend to dogear had been pre-dogeared by its previous owner/s.

now, i do notice geodesic lines anywhere else—on public transit with strangers as meditative glances, on gatherings with peers as exchanged ideas, etc. —and with the heaving of internet, stumbling upon such rarely is an accident one must celebrate. but never have i thought it possible to find one as a manifestation of an old book’s past holder.

the genome immanent in all things wild that had been used are heavy with geranium’s scent, or are they?

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Entry # 216

Date: Thu, 14 May 2015

they invite themselves in any occasion, regardless of your thought process. tears do gather after yawning. is, then, sadness really a consequence of boredom, of that immovable bulge which hinders you from fixing your stuff? the small area in each of your eyes can only hold so much liquid before a single drop escapes to your cheeks and rolls onto the floor. this prismatic essence of your lamentation through which the worldly light, both void and all, hits the floor with a silvery chime, a sound with a faint hint of hope in it. however solid the floor, the drop causes a ripple of about three feet in diameter.

while, affirmative, it is difficult to assure the skeptical self of the certainty of physics, which supposedly could explain how the universal vectors work, your understanding of it at the moment is wavy at best.

from the rippling floor an angel figurine gradually emerges.

a lot of things in the world to merit a ponderous hour of wailing, and yet here the seat shifts for the discomfort of your buttocks already hardened and sore from days of endless bumming out.

of the many installments of dark moods brooding about, this point, you wonder, has been chosen by fate to show you how in the mysterious alchemy of things something so pleasant a stimulus can bloom from where it is least expected. and law-abiding nature, since it is her right to abandon human expectations from time to time, sends one of her angels to materialize from none the less the floor over which you were calling out the wrong concepts of everything.

you visit different quora in search of answers. is it possible? how strange is it, that from the seemingly nullified floor a figurine rises? can a quick search on google provide a list of such impossible instances in recorded history?

dissonance malfunctions, and you remember the twitching of twigs and branches, some 200 of them, phosphorously calcified, classified even according to use. this is you: how you fumble, how you slink. ever so determined to stumble on surprises. the casual oh-yes at the face of pointlessness, the remarkable apathy that none can emulate. i do wonder of your noir, its artistic levers you manipulate; and, of course, your hearing—if your hearing past this point still is doing fine—of the summons of l'esprit de l'escalier.

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Entry # 217

Date: Wed 20 May 2015

in shiny surfaces there are unseen gauntlets on which i thoroughly gauge my compassion for myself. not that shiny surfaces bear any semblance of authority on these topics. and, to me, they are either excuses or forms of torture of the vain to check themselves out before venturing forth into autumn.

what if instead of trembling lips and a stomach aching for fullness, i had the most bizarre case of leadened appendages that longed to labor on heavy tasks? what do i do then if i administer upon the self—beyond congeniality, that is—a meaning to which that many folks find so mundane?

i do not fancy myself as a tough guy. ha, i can’t even get pass through ten push-ups without condemning both heaven and earth for burdening me the thought that i have the strength to accomplish it. by the principle of mediocrity, from cortex to callous, i am the outdated modification of man living off on silicons and diodes.

what does this mean? it means that although i am informed, dressed decently for my everyday bumming, i pother the shenanigans of electronic equipment for my ’latest fix’. is this then the beginning of a cynical life? a young man cruised along the devils of modern soc because he could not give way for what they were imposing on him.

a psychologist could not openly speak out his mind regarding my disposition as compared to the statistically normal. maybe he is scared of the consequences he might have to deal with in case he realized that even he cannot provide a rudimentary analysis of my person, with all the genius he so often boasts simply he cannot. i am not scared of such consequences. at one point in our life we meet someone who has the iron-meshed guts to tell us to our face what we really are. a tim lee pointed it out: aside from the polishing of my ruffian accent, the primary reason why i cannot be so out there hard enough is because of my insufferable detachment from…

in the end, there is no other way but to discern thusly: i don’t know really the concept of people. my condition is irreparable, a chain of trivial junks shaking more violent the harder i try to fend them off. unless i consult a shrink.

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Entry # 218

Date: Sat, 23 May 2015

the infinity offers candid answers to the everyday stigma of having to live through both heat and heated haughtiness alike, to be the extension of inventorial productivity.

it will come to a certain passing, this infinite trade of grit across a cosmic proper, but whether we would perceive even the faintest of its gleam i am not sure. and i wonder what must it be like to be seated in front of people whose calling you do not know. but it is not the kind of wonder that lets one detest one’s own inability to understand. it is the kind that is as trivial as air. and through this cyclic conversion of unknown into known back into unknown (like breathing, o very much like it) your only companion has been your faith, untarnished i believe, in the goddess of love.

perhaps, it has something to do with venusian wont, her majesty’s ensemble that plays the song of all in the language of all.

however, out of all the characters that make up the system, here we landed unjustly on the cusp of touch. here we sat across each other: i, desperately losing focus on the interstellar region of your face; you, seemingly losing orbit.

and here, our attempts to be as pro as possible stemmed from a sheet of paper on which writ, to me, the ways i fumbled effortlessly, and, to you, the overall substance that might be me.

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Entry # 219

Date: Tue, 26 May 2015

when the prescription of scripts does not match your integrity, as against that of maestro lording over you, read your orchestration here, even if it beats rancorously to the chest-pulp.

read your notes, if that kicks you fine, however scholastic they seem to appear, or unparalleled to its own nature of being versatile, even if you must say, they kind of need of undertoning.

being fooled is not a sin, at least not yet; fooling is. and you will come to this conclusion when you decide in the future to come back here and see the molds that have become of your thoughts.

your notes reflect upon a deeper sentience living off on others’ jokes, and are often the disambiguation of diverse personal schema: when gloom tinkers you from the inside; when, alas, the strong and the weak make peace with one another; when you start re-calibrating your actions to reduce any space for certainty.

read them as you go along. when no one else is watching. read them when you are ready to let them gnaw; and then share them, so they could start gnawing you. your consciousness perfumes the earthly winds.

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Entry # 220

Date: Fri, 29 May 2015

two persons from different walks to meet half-way their life spring to their limbs and trek the jagged streets of city. to embark on a half-empty ballad, bold though it may seem, only to find out that fortune-seeking at this impure hour of night offers no permanent satisfaction; only the minimum requirements to be locked up.

the first person is unmanned, the other unnamed.

the first person strides into the silent gala with a business-success look, disappointed because the place is run by rodents, if not by ghosts. in fact, no one is here, except for the old person tending the floor with broomstick, and the bartender. not too long after that the double doors banged as the second runs in after, rather looking too famished to deny the drag of an unquenchable thirst.

of course, two persons of aerodynamic snobbishness: the first examining this unnamed fellow, while the second double-taking the bartender, the contemptuous sort that hands out glares accounting only a part of self which cares not for the one who would hand the liquor over in such a tenderly appreciative fashion.

the bartender fumes, fumbles through a mental handbook (on how to deal with prospective binge-drinkers) for something to give back to this particularly ill-eyed visitor; and two-double-aught-three milliseconds later, bartender decides to flash the bird. the first person assumes understandably the meaning of all the fuss—the exchange of rudeness and lesser absurdities, the call to arms of these strangers—and so the first person stands aside and let the bartender’s aim be truer.

a calm strikes in before the heat of duel. momentous, yet quiet. the unnamed person is hit by the insulting gesture, but who really fanned the flame?

the first person imagines stepping in to prevent the spark of bar brawl. unmanned one wants to participate by stopping it before it goes out of control.

however, here begins the real awful line of interrogation: who among the first and second person is real? is it possible that only one of them is real, and that the other, being unmanned, simply is a chance to change oneself for one’s amusement, a chance to conjure two illusory statements of different technicalities superimposed as a single image?

hurry—the bartender is fast approaching the breaking point.

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Entry # 221

Date: Mon, 01 Jun 2015

after rummaging through an empty vault, and sad, discontent sighing, the vampire flicks through Tinder instead, possibly postulating who goes right and who goes left. the vampire occasionally looms about a temporal air that could have escaped into fangs if indeed such superficial fluid was cinnabar. but air is thinner than blood. this is both the magick and the trick: that blood trumps oxygen. it chokes the victim yet cherishes the villain. it triumphs over post-coital interaction, even. nearly forgotten, although, is the feeling.

much has changed, thinks the vampire. indeed, since the dawn of quantum physics, humans have actively hunted ‘violent’ immortals. some crude group of scientists discovered a way to store huge amounts of natural sunlight inside a slim electronic device for later dispersion.

finding romance on information age requires plutonium will. to tap the inner meredithian volition. to violate comfort for survival’s sake. to iron that synthetic duress with the heat that has not been there ever since. mush has changed; the way the heart tickles its meat with redness and swelling. the pain. plus fear that would not subside. and this endless search for a substitute.

exaggerated stories of the ‘virtually undying’ have evolved. life moves relatively slow, so people make it a point to disappoint people with their natural tendencies to create a destroyer within themselves. in the process, lives are devalued and commercialized. what is the real purpose, then, of the villainy they see in vampires? the trick is knowing how small people are compared to the grand scheme. maybe in knowing, they would evolve accordingly.

…it is a hard task though, this swiping. the capacitive touchscreen of a smartphone finds it difficult to detect the marble-like fingers of the vampire. nobody expected this; it was not in the folk lore. with patience, however, and hours, days, years of attempting, the vampire would find a way to make this existence a tad more bearable.

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Entry # 222

Date: Sun, 07 Jun 2015

when exhibiting to the public’s eye the thought processes thrashed within when procreating for oneself a methodically engineered outfit – ahem, more accurately known to me as comfortable, ahem – it seems that every ogling eyes consequently burn white. knowing already the aged rings of psychological demure of one from slums, thusly preparing me for its elitist, english-spanking version, this i can already take. dare i say that all my adolescent years i have prepared myself to resist this kind of bombardment. however, some manage to find their way in, those that are sharp enough.

this curious nagging, this indirect accusations that flesh out the subject from the subject’s skin without physical contact is, to me, worse than an insulting slap for being in articles that i deemed decent. this leaving only the fibers – and where now is the whole plant, the flower itself, the chance at fruition? uh, what does it accomplish? the power of scrutiny, as it swirls, is delectable for those who enjoy it. and why do they enjoy it? i can’t know for sure, but i have some thoughts about it. 

i thought i was way past this nervous point in life (where co-operatives would want to actually dine with me when i finally mustered that thing to toughen up and invite them to fool me in their fanciest talks) after i stepped down from stage to unemployment. and at a certain angle, this demotion did step up my preconceived ideas about how the gears of society really work. i now understand more how hoary the rudders are from underneath the surface. i thought i had the statistics correct. but now, bit-by-bit redemption thanks to wolfram alpha, maybe i do have what it takes to be somebody. maybe such provoking an idea scours still the floor for bits of approval as time is yet to be convinced.

i also thought that apart from the abating personal cynicism, much of myself has changed: i am constantly fact-checking my nightmares; the moths and mayflies of wallet have been constantly in touch with me (although i believe that in a few weeks i would be eating better food); i have been leaving the doors open around midnight to let the cool summer air in; et cetera.

does it matter anymore whether i address them of my flaws in lieu of theirs? – because i for one am contra their unjust tribulations toward my laundry list when only a small fraction of it is authentic, the rest mere spawns of 2nd hand gestures. these odd sort of people usually sets the standard. one can smell them from lounging too long around the plucking of pubic hair. the key to ciphering the names and notions depends on the distance one puts between them and oneself.

another fumbling through life’s expectations with damn hot wires and analytics. they say, “stop in the name of love!” before actually breaking into a chase. sun never gets them, does not warm them. they refuse to be warmed. they refuse the warm feeling of basic human kindness with some sleight of fist; and what does that tell me about their fundamentals? do i have to read thick hardbounds about people getting off on hurting others? – because that is plain sickening. the cool circulation of oxygenated veins keeps them from messing up. but they are messed up, whatever it is they doing that is brute-some; and then some.

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Entry # 223

Date: Mon, 15 Jun 2015

however close you are to falling, however fatal the distance to ground, a part of you that assesses your position quickly kicks in.

you are now awake. panting, but alive again. and sweating.

you look around and see that your dog studies that egregious aesthetic of post-nightmare coming-to.

“what’s wrong, human?” the dog would say.

nothing—nothing in this world, or off of it, is ever safe.

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Entry # 224

Date: Fri, 19 Jun 2015

that part just before midnight when one complains that one is not getting enough sleep because of things that requires one’s full attention; and yet, here, inside this blue-less blue void of endless scrolling and unrequited text posts, one finds oneself murmuring, again, to an ancient, decrepit self, the crosses to be shouldered, the wounds to be tended, the feet that wouldn’t stand on themselves, the eyes emulating shutter sounds—because when one works hard, the larks perched atop a gas station bow down.

one remembers one’s office, the corporate entanglement, the unnecessary po’s & opo’s; finds oneself somebody to exhume back from the growling pits of empty stomach, angry, determined, ultimately (yet casually) bored.

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Entry # 225

Date: Mon, 29 Jun 2015

how many times have you died inside a train station? how many times have you accidentally elbowed a limp phallus (or any small area of soft tissue) because space reduces itself between people, occasionally doing haunts at prerogative stages of ride? how many pages have you read within a crowded car? how much time have you flung around sticking pens into various lungs inside your mind? how many billboards? how is it that you’re never late?

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Entry # 226

Date: Mon, 29 Jun 2015

what a nice step forward*!*

makes me think i, too, can do wonders. the constrictions of arteries within emerge victorious. a promising arch looms from biblical parodies, and better, more tasteful ways resurface to again invigorate us. the news slides to me in multiple hues of visible light. many people are overjoyed, and they type with same keystrokes with which to help them broadcast to the ever-attentive world how they feel: justice, fairness. but justice and fairness still has a long way to go. hate, sadly, prevails.

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Entry # 227

Date: Tue, 30 Jun 2015

let my feet race each other through alleys of sarcoline filth. and my hunger despises its cocoon for the million ways i could have achieved its discoloration. and the apos and manangs who wave at my pale stature, beckoning to have a bite—they all seem kind at first glance.

let the absence of food be the presence of force; or, the will to chop on whilst towering edifices resist the fall-down. i will gladly look forward to pauses, because it is during those that i cease inveighing the sum of external conundra. let my face reek of fodder every once in a while. and then bring me back to my feet so i can let them carry on on what they do best.

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Entry # 228

Date: Sat, 04 Jul 2015

doing unnecessary math to navigate the undecorated time.

overly hydrating around mates in a structured path because not much has been assigned to me, save for a few clerical errands.

sometimes, i demand perfect efficiency (or is it effectivity? effectiveness?) from myself with every delegated task. sometimes, i refill my container with cold water. again, to drink what is only free. again, to route the fluids to a chosen urinal. again, prior to routing weights to be jammed into a slit between tables. pissing the hours away as i try to improve myself all the while forgetting the primary functions of wheelies.

i compose as i decompose.

i give the face of time intermittent glances. either i have overused its purpose or i have succeeded at depleting my calories finding excessive ones with which to accomplish such obtuseness.

the evidence are in the cameras. they reel inside plastic domes that observe us from a ceiling fixture, although i believe that behind the actual screen on which the visuals are relayed, no one monitors us there. which make us free in this cage. and true enough, there have been rumors about missing pens, staplers, even items as detectable as dignity. i am at a beer hive, or at least i’d like to think so.

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Entry # 229

Date: Wed, 08 Jul 2015

the forms have taken over the suits of villains. most of them are men, those who reciprocate kindness with impolite contours. i remember seeing a bearded figure from a window bus as we passed along leveriza; underneath the rain he smacked a woman who seemed to be his wife in front of the by-standers at nearby kiosks. woman shrieked while retreating. everything was in effect, in sums of violences, from gashing particulates to blobs that fossilized on damaged area. we grow not because it is the best way to utilize our duration, but we grow to meet an endowment with a brutal contraption. i am not afraid of the absence of light. in fact, i would have skated on its blunt edge had i known how to do that. even with soggy socks.

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Entry # 230

Date: Tue, 14 Jul 2015

i don’t understand: a few months ago, i had mired myself in a prima facie notion of escaping my own futile discourse here with metro manila’s persona, so unoriginally chic during that time, partly because emotional clouds hung quite low about.

manila is a more decrepit version of new york or tokyo admixed with brownian cunning; and, i thought, “the sooner i hike a bus or boat or plane out of here, the better preserved will the rest of me be.” and now that work literally kicks me to fly to places i have never been, i realize that a huge part of me resists leaving. that this has been me all along: unswept corridors of ammonia, loud horns, crying stuck-ups with their placards of hope. this has been me… and the sooner i hike a bus or boat or plane out of here, the better.

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Entry # 231

Date: Thu, 16 Jul 2015

whatever passes the rigorous shoulder-shaking when one enumerates good things with one’s digits, unabashed is one to consider them goodies as basic as breathing oxygen or drinking water. and so, when a superior handed (or, more appropriately, burdened) me down with two, nay, three volumes of electrical codes (that i have been d y i n g to lay my hands on) dating around the dawn of second millenium, i did not mind. i did not mind, even though each volume has had at least one revision over the last decade, and that each is as bulky as a burger machine. i did not mind at all. besides, if anyone must know, reading outdated textbooks is my jam.

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Entry # 232

Date: Mon, 20 Jul 2015

the key in expression is to have a very good grasp of the basic syntax before one is allowed to break some rules into unknowable tidbits in one’s little blue corner. in my case, the only purpose is to chalk up amateur depth in my way of being for on-lookers to analyze. and so, here: analyze.

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Entry # 233

Date: Wed, 22 Jul 2015

pro tip: all allegedly discussed souvenirs for your predestination-paradox self lies somewhere in the knot of tenses, somewhere in the itch of it all that this attempts to unveil. all sorts of discomfort and irony around you, people tend to personify into existence. you ask, “are you cutesy?” when people evolve to cynics at rapid rate. you ask, “are you famished?” when same people provide less space for lonely those. greylings cascade down with every beat at every turn of every twisted whim. you ask when the future succeeds to fail you, and i am then bound to answer my mistakes. i tell you to never attach any sentiments with lifelong web-spinning harmony. later on in life, some crisis will personify itself into existence, and it will drag along your tune. you would have to orchestrate an exit from this, lest you implode. think of a clockwork orange. also, never try it with scents. you ask, “and the ‘viddy’?” especially not with visuals. consider me in your scope: my fields were ideal, but i have aimed lower since i saw myself when i was 42 and nothing turned out quite well. really, i have aimed lower, like wall fan low. also, never attach any memento to taste, as romantic as it may sound, as falsifiable as it seems. in fact, suppress most of your senses as something happens on the get-go, and learn to grow wooden roots. be a plant, instead. be balete and give your ghosts a shade.

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Entry # 234

Date: Fri, 24 Jul 2015

“boss,” i said, through octopus-chasing-fish arms and some wobbly legs, “i need some time off.” the exact date and time does not matter, as long as from day one to day n it is fully paid.

the world out there already is slick with acrylic, carbon, and methanol; the world, both capable and incapable, patiently arrests every day from hectic Being. all of it to be maneuvered across vast canvas as a pixel of immemorial doom.

“boss,” i wrote, “i would have handed you the list of things to buy, which included, but are not limited to, *a *hubble space telescope, happyness, and un-folding bike; however, the biped specimen you keep in front of your office to overlord us lesser specimens—the one with a handsome face yet disproportionate vino belly—told me that you would have none of it. and so, here i go directly to you, hoping for you to consider my position.”

but before investing on that muscovado Mut, i had already resigned to my cubicle and flicked through my head for some used tease ballads for a low-cost meditation. “if you were paying attention,” the remarkable voice said (i, honored that it acknowledged me after n days, listened), “then you know that at least this day has been a good effort on your end.”

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Entry # 235

Date: Wed, 29 Jul 2015

anything across lips is merely a stretch mark. any mumbled space-junkie intuition hurled from the hangar of neurons barely passes as a midget of thought, if at all. slave of cerveza beyond doubt, iconic among my peers, because after fifteen months of fruitless search for something to aim with, what better way to rise from the rashes than to spelunk into a spunk of malt, etc?

but who am i really? another hole in Sagan’s stardust to stitch? i am as blue as my Corona journal, although not as busy. i have kept track on finite lists to set at the bottom, a safety bet against plan-b mishaps.

however, on a blink of choice, the enterprise shifts into a one-dimensional chain reaction; and before results are apparent many good times might have slipped unnoticed.

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Entry # 236

Date: Sun, 02 Aug 2015

what better way to outdo the existing mode within an urban area populated by high-rise buildings and seldom trees than to coalesce with plot twists of matrix, to dot the spacetime with occupational errors?

what better way to draw lines among cotton clouds than to let them be drawn towards you? the point of having matters at hand is generally uplifting. but when the hand turns the knob and the door swings open and your eyes quickly fix on a stranger sleeping in your space, something happens in the matrix. something flips the protective device. you take a look around and start to scrunge sharp items at this lecherous creature.

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Entry # 237

Date: Fri, 07 Aug 2015

when i ordered a double-shot espresso, Ms. Barista wondered. perhaps, to her, my ragged outfit could not justify neither my presence in such a coffee shop nor my, mm, impeccable taste.

i don’t blame her; kids these days are so fond of cold and creamy and sweet drinks. it did not help that i told her my name is [REDACTED].

my co-worker who was with me at the time was laughing all the while i flicked through alibis worth mentioning. so, we had our coffee. after downing mine in an instant, feeling bitin, i went back to her and ordered their today’s-special lung ching dragonwell tea. not bad.

the many repositories of dreams rising in the wet air lacked color. they had been washed with hours of raining. the depot visit and the pier inspection were exhausting, but not as much as the traffic jams that seemed to lock vehicles in their place. what is happening to you, manila?

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Entry # 238

Date: Fri, 07 Aug 2015

the ghosts of all the friend dogs whose coats i smoothed, your dreams were childlike even if i can never surmise them into my human translation. and i meant that as a good thing, since it is probable that i will never have kids, and all of you have been the closest to my having one. i wish there were a dog memory bank, and from it i could tap tap tap…

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Entry # 239

Date: Mon, 10 Aug 2015

the east of a passing earth, before ranting of pre-babylon slams, was split into many shards while the sky itself simply accepted its shedding of multiple layers of skin. flecks of time on my nape brushed, and an ever-perennial manna knocked twice, thrice on a clogged nose. some say it is the season of sickness, some say a culture of post-resurrection destruction. so i sleep with my skullcap on even nothing abed is wrong and dilute the brine with glands and fitting however untested they are.

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Entry # 240

Date: Thu, 13 Aug 2015

all the minor spinning gestures of hand spun around a cold air complex like pinwheel moved by breath; and by the window, the rush of wheels hummed whenever the circle lit green. sometimes, out of curiosity, one peeks out of the glass into the faraway holes of edifices, wondering who or what could have been transpiring behind those idle curtains. but the greyness of mist alters the visible with how motes of toxin continue their hype of damascened invasion. maybe it was not the outside world that i should speak about, but who was near me at the time: a bundle of flesh held by nuisance, a keen sense of wont for strangers-turning-friends. maybe this should not be a travelogue of one butaw but an open-ended boy-greets-girl tale. un/fortunately, this is not any of the mentioned.

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Entry # 241

Date: Tue, 18 Aug 2015

As casual clothing settled the scene, as fraud conjurations of how-art-thou’s carouseled from person to person, there hung somewhere an imagined tension when lamps closed their eyes and snuffed the din from air. Confusion greeted people as though an accomplice passing by to remind of the indelible horrors they had spray-painted together one night. But it was thought to be day. Not entirely was the din muted, however. In fact, the instant after the dark bit, everyone was close to hysterical. When the lights flickered again, and the piercing tone that followed had gone to another place, people realized that it was not a trick. The surprise groped them by the chest; and soon, heart, sinew, and splendid callings contested the visions of our kindred spirits that did not know when and where to place said items.

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Entry # 242

Date: Wed, 26 Aug 2015

if a person is ultimately limited by myopic projections of self into the future deemed a greener pasture, then that person, in one way or another, somehow has predestined themself to do anything just so such projections would materialize, although the term ‘anything’ encompasses a general lot.

it is not a blanket testament with which to contrast past with present with future self. it merely is (well, to me) the most brutal a person can get.

‘anything could happen and the world resembles the genitals of an oyster’ is talking high likeliness of success here. i myself could not believe it at first, that these people exist, until i’ve met them in person. alcohol tricks them into voicing their aspirations. i’ve heard of guns, i’ve heard of meticulous premeditation, left, right jaunts to querida’s night post, and so on; and through all these monologues, i have no choice but to keep it to myself, smile, maybe aggressively nod my shrunken head. at some point, they could bend some without breaking some… there has to be a counterculture for this one that tolerates person-to-person infection of ideals as one tries to climb the proverbial ladder, this pulp-thought reduction process amidst weaving into royal grandeur of scum.

or, perhaps, it is inevitable: that one must kick and pull wrungs down in order to get up. it is here, me looking out only for myself, as the community attempts to quantify accomplishments.

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Entry # 243

Date: Sat, 29 Aug 2015

at least once in your english-speaking phase in life, include in a thinkpiece the words ‘unstoppable force, immovable object’ so that when you resurface to a personal renaissance, you will realize that nothing is the resultant.

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Entry # 244

Date: Sun, 30 Aug 2015

nothing is wrong with wanting to get out of a mess, to skip the poor stages of life where your parents made poor decisions ending poorly.

nothing wrong with wanting three meals for your family even though to some that is already a divine justice; to occasionally drift to land where good comes to good and unfortunate.

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Entry # 245

Date: Mon, 31 Aug 2015

suppose one piledriver evening, instead of succumbing to the requests of succubi, you explore the vastness of netherwebz. you decide to ebb the eddies by watching recorded live concerts of your fave artists. the camera once in a while focuses on the crowd, and you ask yourself in disappointment, “how are not they jamming out?” you have imagined losing yourself there, and yet all of these peeps seemed to have frozen in their shoes as though their budget were flushed down the loo.

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Entry # 246

Date: Thu, 03 Sep 2015

no more predilections for the vampire twerking class. no more needless incarcerations of angels with hues. in fact, the world needs more pints of paints to wash, not cover, the sins of those that cannot be altered through crosses. no more hold-on monologues, no more green tongues forking for similes from aging millenials, because, come on, have you not the enthusiasm to actually do something? unless, of course, something is internally hindering you. then, by all means, give in to your personal quests. but please, try foucault or lorde or someone from your mother tongue that could purge your atrophy. no more telescopes whose flashy ends are grommeted with the supposed downward tomorrow. future is bleak. humans are doomed. nigh well are we to face our masters, but it is up to us to have whether teeth or lips to taunt them with.

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Entry # 247

Date: Tue, 08 Sep 2015

yes, i belonged to a dell with greens elaborating the stretch of current. yes, i had once imagined from beyond longitudinal landscapes etiolated lots where a violet pyre deprived the hearth of air. in many frames, the motion maketh living achey-breaky. and yet, still subsists the spray of dews, even here amid urban cobwebs, in the dingy of hearts. for wherein lies sincerity, the push remains significant.

people are not naturally septemberists nor floral by any account. times will be good, even if highways turn to parking spaces, even if it takes a million comics to parody life as, according to some beliefs, it rolls around the last few days.

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Entry # 248

Date: Thu, 10 Sep 2015

most stoppages could be traced back to me, and here i am, whilst ollie-ing with me swivel, attempting to pinpoint within what and where exactly the glitch is. a slight pondering on break gives me a clue: i am lethargic, i am brainiac downswing, or i am both.

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Entry # 249

Date: Mon, 14 Sep 2015

what i said: you launched me beyond the depths of space
what i meant: i spun with supraswift madskillz as body – all gel, limbs and shards – erupted from the edge of halfpipe into still air. i had to maintain my hang time, so i could spin fast enough, to borrow more moments from the world.

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Entry # 250

Date: Tue, 15 Sep 2015

book title: practicality over preferred quality?, or languid exertions contra blanch instances tainting freedom of espresso

synopsis, for editor’s approval: is extravagance the messy part of this cultural discord, or is it, simply, how the persona presents a lame excuse for sluggish behavior as contrast to hardbound golden lamentations ? if soc is to convert an upbringing into a pyramid one must scale, then what purpose soc ultimately embeds? be it harsh not polishing the opt-out bit as most logical response? also, why are we having another debate about acquisition of coffee over coffee, ffs?\

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Entry # 251: portraits of belt-bag beings and their iterations

Date: Wed, 16 Sep 2015

  1. coming across people who dislike looking into details—their criteria amuse me. when a metronome ticks before them, no more measurement is made. sleep shatters upon heads like candy bottles.
  2. modern times reminds them that not once did svelt carbon fiber quiver beneath them. it is the weakness: apparatuses inundating joints with last influx of work before altogether creaking to halt.
  3. when a rooster cocks a pellet into a toy pistol, his pagan god will soon peer from the velvetine outlines of clouds. it will be another day of hustling, of pointing out squares out of people’s eyes. he will say, “your eyes look different” without even looking at them. he is, after all, a pathological liar. the rooster pecks for worms or insects, and could only long for better junk, but that is as far as longing goes.
  4. joking bones: each booms of infantile caresses. cooing for attention, sometimes, even shopping for physicians. it is understandable that not many can tolerate pain, as pain comes in various forms in varying degrees. most probably, amongst documents filed away, a check-up receipt stating the ignoramus faults sits between page 5 and page 38 of a journal.
  5. no considerations for personal space whatsoever. these people are supposed to be adults?
  6. ah, used to be a front man. his failings have grown their own mustache, more greige than heartbreak convention located downtown. oh, my heart, he says. oh, my fellows, i am sad, terribly sad, he says. he gets no reply from mentioned fellows.
  7. u mean a thundering audacity, a non-meditative response to any inquiries? u mean the puffballs they call clenched fists? u mean the frisks that are actual forms of abuse and not just accidents and/or innuendos?
  8. restless, red-eyed lizards.
  9. (shoutout to all real lizards of the world: i am not speaking ill of you, nor am i comparing your actions to some wicked ways… if, somehow, my wording did imply that, i’m sorry.)
  10. the look that never outlasts its detractors. the half-truths that are sent forth as breeding grounds for new predicaments. the baritone, the technicolor teeth which do not fool anyone.
  11. lustful initiative. cris de coeur include heavily tainted hashtags. melding incomplete, because they could easily be spotted even when no one is looking.
  12. ‘hunger’ doth not mean the stomach speaketh naught. it is entirely something else.
  13. has an inexplicable disgust for any shade of red, but once admitted was a commie. this must be a prank.
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Entry # 252

Date: Thu, 17 Sep 2015

if there along the wayward air paths with which you will trace the globe you stumble upon a prettier mess than this cluster you un/intentionally engineered, then by all means, feel free to never come back. we, the colleagues, just had the tastiest lunch so far, much thanks to the roomy width your vacation has left. be it for better or for worse, i couldn’t care less anyway.

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Entry # 253

Date: Sun, 20 Sep 2015

dubious-feeling converted to a splitting headache via reckless chugging down of brandy… i am nothing now but a dreamscape of falling teeth and curious babble, both of which could only be cured with reconsumption of week-old fuzak streams and the fact that tomorrow will be another bewildering lunes. hello, world, and goodbye.

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Entry # 254

Date: Wed, 23 Sep 2015

TFW you have to dismantle altogether such an awful conjecture as getting by the night with nothing but pandesal and a mug of milk all the while being reminded by the very appurtenance (FKA well-tended stomach) you so depose of doof. RIP personal welfare.

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Entry # 255

Date: Sat, 26 Sep 2015

the days before me will reset themselves, and the many suns that went up and down will liberate the whole thing from off my mind. this i know from the moment i took that singular hit, firing up the rest of the chain; that my memory will always be a test, an involuntary decomposition which is neither prevented by meditation or by the fact that the first line of the last e-mail i sent is always a prospective epitaph headline.

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Entry # 256

Date: Thu, 01 Oct 2015

no one has identified yet what causes the blank when required to pilfer from feelz archive a fitting description for my current demeanor. i could draw a line graph of a week, in which i would indicate spikes—rather, stalagtites—of bleakness hither and thither. some of them i have conned myself into thinking they are parts of adulthood, of a necessary maturation; however, it’s mostly about untruths regarding desktops and paperwork, if you know what i mean. so how about jeet kune do vs the spinning tactics of corporate greed, yay o nay?

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Entry # 257

Date: Sat, 03 Oct 2015

to survey an everyday clearing of living room with nothing but self-professed grit remains the ever-exclusive task for this Me that so deserves a blunt-force reawakening.


how hard do you think it is for me to arrive from work, suppressed by jolts and pulls of an encumbering metropolitan (now labeled the worst city to experience traffic), and sense that something depressing has befallen my companion? something that i find difficult to bridge with affection alone? to grieve for some people who would not come to the welp of my companion, is making me phase into cycles that are just as bad.

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Entry # 258

Date: Tue, 06 Oct 2015

where does one attribute any abhorrent physical manifestation of one’s musing over his most recent f-up? what distraction is needed? what type of linoleum on which to scribble one’s blackest fugues? what immolation to mitigate these serpentine striations condoning much of sodium that pollutes the eyes? go to top

Entry # 259

Date: Mon, 12 Oct 2015

all overwhelming things descend upon ones who sleep past lunch, themselves immune to the beckons of bottomless pits. i, on one hand, slaps on the earbuds and let supersonic chops fine-tune my head away from ‘chillax’ sounds of miley cyrus. go to top

Entry # 260

Date: Thu, 15 Oct 2015

The inglorious method of us to let crippling tunes transfuse their inertia unto our devices when we know deep down we have not developed something real yet still human that could push us down the staircase. To choke on a large pair of opals that refuses to return our flashers. To mitigate the rush, crush, and the unpalatable stigma of having to resent any boyish systems, although 99% of which are righteous and do not need any finalization of re-recommendation. The coming-home of tired flesh from race. The spent musings and its many revisions, recycled but have no good use. When does one stop and where? go to top

Entry # 261

Date: Wed, 21 Oct 2015

the power rarely is flipped on, but when speakers pronounce the aurora in much fluctuating dizziness its prime blasé, who else provides the steps of a false power groove? when the agents of a mooring distance officiate their causes through whatever means necessary, who else is caught amid the tango of papers?

inside this paragraph, i will provide no insight as to who causes what or where does it happen when it does. the only thing certain about my current predicament is that of all things, chairs included, on which i append my spine and buttocks, i found peace in this particular apparatus called toilet. if indeed it is absolute or only fleeting, i will have to check with the ‘outcome’. go to top

Entry # 262

Date: Tue, 27 Oct 2015

what happened to a town was this: right before the disk voyaged down past the horizon, a discreet humming buzzed amongst those who were still capable of hearing. it was of a peculiar sort, something that could extinguish scents prior to their composition. or the silver ornamental that was julienne-thin that hypnotized no one, not even those who play well with verse. or a mongrel of thick coating, a crowd, a fruit peeling; really just random objects for random spurts of objection to the toxic homebound route. go to top

Entry # 263

Fri, 30 Oct 2015

Through high-pitched sirens hurting at the corner to be struck i nudged my frame, peeping past the blurring fluorescent beams that are never rare in such an ‘inviting’ intersection of minds. As i did, i looked into my kissing kit for a breath analyzer, only to realize that the mood for exchanging saliva with a prospective lovapalooza participant never knocked on me, and thus, no such machine could ever be acquired from any of my baggage. If distance were personified or science had it in simpler definition, then it was both a bedmate and an opponent.

Wait: Mind? But—Many possess intimidating ones with nice compartments to match the contents; and to listen to how they confabulate their intimate garble questions my ability to deepen the quality of my patents (or patience, depending on what they say). It’s seldom that I get to mingle with them. I suppose goofing my way around deconstruction’s pun side has its perks. I mean, how far can one fun? go to top

Entry # 264

Date: Wed, 04 Nov 2015

The curve suggesting the rate of dissociation lies proximal to both axes. It is hard to keep and unkeep, to link both full and null at the same point without having to retreat to safety so as to assess the possibility of grime. To think again, to sink again. To feel that the ullage, however contemptible its volume, presses hard against the end of spine upwards. I might come up with a prayer of my own contra drag-downs. I might be the perpetual antagonist in my internal monologue, and not once could have I flinched even in knowing; that in spite of the many small sparks that have flown rogue into dryest cells of forest, I, the cavorted yet unyoked, might have never stopped burning at all. go to top

Entry # 265

Date: Sat, 07 Nov 2015

You are pulled from your attachment to the vertical beam. The landscape of cotton enmeshed with fibrous skin fumbled from the pole, both icy and molten at the same time. You borrowed glances from closed eyes, from dreams whose spirits swimming gradually farther to depths; and between pulses you expounded on rests that could have been filled by escaping images. There you half-sunk back to light before a femur automated the entire structukre to that same old poise, scratching still the patches that had dried through evening whistles. go to top

Entry # 266

Date: Mon, 09 Nov 2015

any misadventures of life plutonian boiling beyond this intimate space could not have been perceived through the dormer. when i knocked, the self inside pried open the crying room’s door with stubby digits and, then, welcomed the convection of scents: here the stench, and there the rosette.

i looked at self, and there in its hollows i felt the cheeky, smothered ditty of hold. while it’s not the catchiest, it sure was a wicked tune in itself, and in my free time i would love to clown around its structure and rhymes. however, no more measuring tactics, no more amour left for strangers’ consumption, only wisps to be transferred through wordplay.

then, in such opaque illumination, this self denounced its frustration: i was actually laughing there to things like maslow’s Big thinkpiece, because never in my time that i felt it was accurate for my stance, that i regarded his general idea of persistence as a belonging factor. i had to dis/agree.

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Entry # 267

Date: Mon, 16 Nov 2015

almost exclusively breathe we this thick tainted atmos that contorts the twirls and vagabond smokes. an unseen palm graces the neckline with a chokehold of thousand cranes; this dead bosom sighing, “quiet may you run.” i tried closing my eyes to the fakespeak of sibling, and while in time the sand would grain the lids, it took me some millions of half-lives in spasm, inflicting knuckles to an already impatient forehead. lost sleep over some smoker puffing, simply conducting bachs using his trachea to compose garbage. or: to decompose through the aid of his virtuoso colleagues.

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Entry # 268

Date: Sun, 22 Nov 2015

the thin metal sheet, a reflective yet a liminal piece, attempts to uncover mysteries that are only open to the beholder. sometimes, objects do have malice enchantments in them, and the eyes unlock them out of habit. should this be the case? when viewing from another surface this same viewer, he glows with the foe, he prays with the perilous bunch that is his kin. he does not cuss unattractive pitches, but, as and if he exhales, he exhales a poison cloud that had long dwelled inside. he frees raven, and thus he is freed, if only temporary. it is a wonderful spectacle, if you ask me, to come to those moments when one feels alive with one’s self. to feel the void retreating to its abyss in one stale breath.

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Entry # 269

Date: Wed, 25 Nov 2015

i am once again haunted by a renewed beating-bad, breaking the shape of its old vessel, as if china when subjected to rapid thermal fluctuations—ice then ire then cold then coal—to form a different stasis to contain the essence.

absence would be an ace state if it weren’t for the choice to commit (to) a sabado mistake. on it victorian-era sleuth-style: i dive into a helpless case. humans reach for the stars, gamma with or without.

unceremoniously here again with the annual plight of fighting what to others must not be fought but rather accepted. here, assimilating both smog and snot into a wound behind an ear, and dust backfilling the doggone crevices, as i contemplate on a chair the way the lights play for grace, if not for a theistic symbol of horseplay.

a white on mic mimics mother tongue poorly so as to invite humor, but this is simply pale, and frankly, he wanks on scores of eyerolls from some of the audience who cannot ingest a sound he produces. the others seem to enjoy his gimmick though.

scars line up to park here: this plane uncharted that brings to vision sightly dresses pacing the velveteen. of course, the velvet itself is as authentic as it can get, unseen only to the elite before but now just strides away. however, even when we do not connect on any level, even when the sour growl of long-live stomach progresses to deep reverberations of tectonic plates, absence does not taper the taste left by pussyfoot in mouth, nor the chills in its cavities. images clipped by the mental camera are prone to alterations, mind you, probably of and by the disenfranchised. when i repress the shutter, the whole thing becomes corrupted.

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Entry # 270

Date: Mon, 07 Dec 2015

People who immediately notice curtain designs throw a bunch of garbage into a bag and go to an airport, purposefully wanting to migrate back to places they only see in dreams. The same people to report back days later with a newly-acquired talent: the vindication of coma-backs as each relive drunken encounters comprising largely of cascading crimson turrets from meters, meters there.

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Entry # 271

Date: Mon, 14 Dec 2015

Inwards the frame come many forces that i do not have the capacity to deal with yet. I go with so few a tool for my calling yet I go anyway. Not that reason admonishes the lowest point of body to rectify the very existence of vile, but to do so must also mean defeating the original case. I know, says moi: nature tends to self-correct. In my case, I try to keep the paleolithic fields bereft of antimatter, as real as it does not sound, even if it takes purloining underrated garments inexplicably stained with unwarranted summons of daybreak before striding to eat-sleep-work facet of this current fever. go to top

Entry # 272

Date: Mon, 14 Dec 2015

o’er there modern perils find me blithely dipping the litmus into some acid test to predict how certain metals behave. or dare their ore origin. the solution fizzles for a moment, and when the paper is lifted, go to top

Entry # 273

Date: Mon, 21 Dec 2015

it was in a dream the other night: i downed four or five bottles and felt somewhat lonelier than before. i did just fine, though. it was when your ghost appeared from thin air, and your being decided to bury its face on my neck, that i trembled so coldly i had to shake myself awake. rebooting the senses, as usual, didn’t seem logical at the moment. but i was glad i woke up; i fought nonsense with nonsense, which is a good methodology to incorporate in one’s plowing into adult life, studies say.

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Entry # 273

Date: Tue, 22 Dec 2015

the blatant pinch, as if an atom of epidermis when struck, dissolves all recurring thoughts that daftly persists. two vermilion bows of different polarities inch toward the graces of one another, not minding crookedness nor age-old filth materializing from the urn. when they do touch, some switch is triggered to trip just in time to deplete the subject of nerves, rightfully sparing him two revolutions of suffocating sophistication. as the subject normalizes, he gains what has momentarily left him. go to top

Entry # 274

Date: Sun, 03 Jan 2016

I only have pictures of my dog, Hogan, as proof of documentation that I got past the dread of fireworks some days ago. He seems purposeful now, and, truthfully, so must I.

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Entry # 275

Date: Tue, 05 Jan 2016

in the beginning, nothing fabulous soared over the horizons except for a looming Sluggishness, only at the time, it was sort of a gargantuan dry plasmid. if it were to be seen, it would have looked gooey, and it being shapeless was the only shape it was known for. however, none of the accounts i have read thus far confirmed this. all of which are “educated” suspicions based on in-depth studies of tragedies that befell those who dared view it with meager eyes. i shall not speak of such tragedies for this will not be another sad story to post on the internet for everyone to spit at—no.

in the beginning, there came about tons of books of praise, all written by, and for, some being known as the Hydrogen God. the Hydrogen God, out of his lack of respect for balance, thought everything seemed too refined for palatability; thought everything needed a different stir to shake up and wake up the tired droning buzz. he wanted a brand new high, basically.

so, the Hydrogen God tore Sluggishness from its place in space, and with the right kit at hand, rolled it into one galactic spliff. the Hydrogen God lit up one end and puffed into the other. he blew a stream of smoke into the nether, and from the cloud, HG created the first Lazy Man.

i was not given a name. maybe the effects of Sluggishness had already gone to HG’s bloodstream, and he was therefore too pinned down to do anything else, naming his creation included. besides, who needs a name? don’t look at me. i am not one to be labeled by some vagabond deity who cannot even contain the effects of his undoing. i do not need a name. not in this place, anyway, nor in this lifetime…

i sat there, too patiently, in that oblivion where my creator summoned me. nothing fabulous kept me afloat. i thought of impeding any fluctuation of the joule parameters within my vicinity that might jumpstart a significant chain of events which could lead to the eventual formation of an intelligent life form. and you know what, i did just that. been at it for a long time now. all for a sorry fun.

it is not a matter of how or why, that much i can tell you.

another hobby i recently got myself into: i pen short short stories, for personal consumption, of course. the Hydrogen God is still too zoned out to be bothered conjuring cosmic mythos, so i took it upon myself to imagine infinite number of worlds. you know, to pass infinite time. i see no problem in that – generating that much fiction, i mean – as long as i have myself and the vast dark playground before me. and this growing dissociation inside, what else!

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Entry # 276

Date: Wed, 06 Jan 2016

for each of the fresh reddish spots i scalpel’d with the blunt of a forefinger, i chimed a heart-crafted curse to dispel the unwarranted jovian visits that kept me rolling the sweat onto the sheet sea while fending off bugs that have tried poking me with their probosces and mandibles.

Sandman, come in—you who mastermind putting powdered benadryl retina-deep in your woe-filled devotees —and sort this mess out for me. in the morning, i live a radical life of not masking the previous night’s hubris with strong persuasion sitting on my perfume shelf. i imbibe the provincial smell whence i hail. everywhere reeks of hyperspace, but not me: i have yet to find my grip on what things still feel loutish upon the muted function of third leg.

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Entry # 277

Date: Tue, 12 Jan 2016

You want the mechanics of peptide, but I only have the schematics of polyester. The inner anarchist reaches for the doomsday switch, but the literate hive mind swats the extending arm; wishes instead for every peyote here to pop the magic. To enlighten. To tread the sliver with all limbs flapping less, the tides ripping fewer pores at soles, the wind poeming benign whispers against ears, all of which parts of balancing act. And the act is protein versus plastic.

But really, I am more of anarchaic than political antihero awaiting backfire. Meaning, the soul reacts to familiar stimuli which so despises resolution that some passersby might mistake them for keyboard propaganda. This is never the case.

Admittedly, I am no hacked engine in the game of fabrication. Everybody has spat sulfur pyre on the imp’s face without assessing the probable comebacks of said critter. Because that hits right sometimes. We have an itch for that. And we have a special occasion for scratching that itch.

Those who babble otherwise usually have megaphones locked in their hands, and who trusts people with megaphones?

As for me, I beckon not good karma as bargaining device for my supposed Good Deed, but Whatever comes, I always hope that it is filtered.

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Entry # 278

Date: Sun, 17 Jan 2016

within two hours of sleep, i dreamed of sneaking through the night peeping down the flight of stairs to see where the droning sound was coming from. i saw darth vader speaking to two huge hemispheres of brain. i realized that the talking brainiacs were manifestations of the sith douchebag’s current dilemma. they were in a debate whether to tell luke the Whole Story. before adjorning, however, one of them sensed that someone “from nearby is listening.” i dashed back to my bed, dived beneath sheets, and pretended to sleep, just in time before a spotlight beamed at me. the deep mechanical sound of heavy breathing wrapped around my neck; anakin was choking me.

apparently, this was a nightmare.

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Entry # 279

Date: Sun, 17 Jul 2016

all you matchmakers don’t know anything about spurious chit-chat. if you truly seek sapiosexual, go and try to buy a car from a salesperson. that’s your future plutonic kisser.

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Entry # 280

Date: Mon, 18 Jul 2016

Here it is: constantly forwarding through spacetime slosh is, at any point, the first attempt at barbiturate-laced Slurpee.

The need for validation spams my inbox, and I’m not astute with these kinds of commotion to begin with. I think about my welfare and how it really isn’t well nor fair. Tossing around thoughts. Trying to laugh at inside jokes. Only drawings of ghosts I have seen; their existence has yet to materialize. Something must be out of place. Is it because I’m too far out there or in too deep? Chasing the wrong sedan?

I don’t like it when people tell me that I shouldn’t stop being me, for I am my own speculation, a reality bent on forgoing its very details to make room for other semi-substantial objects. I am unique like a damned snowflake in a winterless country. Trying to laugh at inside jokes. They never tire me. Pero puta ang init talaga, don’t tell me otherwise.

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Entry # 281

Date: Thu, 21 Jul 2016

what i was saying: scoring brownie points with the hit peeps must be parallel to a textbook drama they stir.

what i was implying: their kind of amusement has something to do with the mildness of their nature.

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Entry # 282: postmortem suggestions

Date: Fri, 22 Jul 2016

(1) bury your guilt with honey-soaked wrappings in silica; (2) let your secrets sink to the hydrostatic lagoon floor, murky amongst other secrets; (3) your raconteur voice is on reverb; (4) your duties stop haunting you at bedrock; (5) chill

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Entry # 283

Date: Sat, 23 Jul 2016

So many upbeat tunes crossed with deadening lyrics for taking a walk. The surge comes from somewhere Elise, comes from two hemispheres that do not know where to place the excess. The brain signals the body to get up and actually go do something. The body can respond in so many ways. One of which is buying a liter of merlot fresh from a fly-infested wallet. Another is something Elise.

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Entry # 284

Date: Sun, 24 Jul 2016

the theses we overcome, the cases we study, the population in which we thrive, the days when we catch gamma with skin, the people we whisk away, the vitriol from one speaker to another

– in order to forward the plot, we improvise with what we have. we pick but are only chosen sometimes. we give off colors to the untrained eye. we infer correctness based on others’ errata and yet the current state of our spirits are perpendicular conrete structures, devoid of epoxy. with digital love we evoke phlegm from underused larynx and promptly spit it on sepulchre. we buy into the collective retardation, and the romantic fervor of flesh is the currency. i don’t want to believe that this is it. i have been at it for quite some time now, and i want out.

i have no actual depth when i talk about these things. at the very least, my attempts inaccurately convey comprehensive thought process that could forward the plot. and yet what do we have here is a musing.

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Entry # 285

Date: Wed, 27 Jul 2016

might be a rotten wallflower whose vitriol seeps through conversations. i think this part of me is intense. proof: sometimes when i sally past a lamp post, the light goes out for a while. there has to be an explanation to all this.

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Entry # 286

Date: Sun, 31 Jul 2016

a child of the Ocean comprises 95% of unexplored secrets, the darkest of which obliterates. an evolved creature addressing the surface as skin, already reached maturation billions of summers ago, but acts childish nonetheless. the waves roll in quick and recede back. they stretch out and feel the eyes following their curves. a small change on skin prepares the person for the ubiquitous lure of littoral babes, but since people riding the same surf dislike follow-through shuffles, the person simply allows tender shit to overwhelm until fatigue. at night, the person exclaims, “none of my people are hitting on me.”

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Date: Thu, 04 Aug 2016

  1. Dismay that stretches for lightyears affects the chances of Amity, but since i have the basic knowledge of the universal forces at work, we can stop at the nearest orbit.
  2. I nurse my delusion here, the core of which is a common denominator amongst my genus. To quench dry throats with muddied corpse. To still the famished guts with potential firm oodle. A one-way street to the hills with no intention of going down. Oh, wait, that is the intention! To lay bare my light schemes. To strike the opening of the dam.
  3. Strange dialogues lead to a certain blend of fun: kind-slash-sardonic, and involves a lot of knives. Murderous pero medyo bastos, if that’s a thing.
  4. Volatile gas transforms a meadow into possibly a burning field of poaceae in a sundress. Butane bites make sharp shells go boon.
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Entry # 288

Date: Wed, 10 Aug 2016

The dynamics at work here simplify actions into ___. For example, I pull you towards me and you sigh. I push your patience to edge and you frown. I have my incurable malaise, and you have your resilience. I detest projections, but we tend to talk about them anyway.

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Entry # 289

Date: Wed, 17 Aug 2016

Sleepless junkies (only two of them) meet up in the metro’s heart, and out of taste for magic, things escalate within a filip’s sound. But the first person, a male, is not actually sleepless. In fact, he cannot function without a proper rest, like most cats his age. He is not a cat person, though. He sleeps better when with the canine friend around than the dog who accompanies him whilst asleep.

So, let me repeat:

A sleepless junkie and a dog person meet up in the metro’s heart, and because the two can only spar with each other using pixie dust during play time, matters get out of hand quickly. That’s a good thing, in retrospect. In this life where strange people collide, patience is a platinum commodity. The second, the junkie, is a personified vat of pheromones. It is understandable then to have sentient beings vying for her attention as she whisk each one away with a bird-flip. She goes home with the dog person one night to be able to witness the sunrise together the following morning.

Both of them spends a good deal of locomotive exercise all this time.

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Entry # 290

Date: Thu, 18 Aug 2016

dissociative disorder—i think a large fraction of my existence comprises this, sans the professional papers to officiate the prognosis.

the delay of senses, the obscure metathesis that comes from looking beyond perception, the recommendations of experts on the matter on how to behave like a statistically adequate individual: they all seem to go hand in hand with each other, but seeing that, upon careful study, each is immiscible with the other two, i am left confused, internally scratching the internal of my head. i want to believe that this isn’t the case, but most of the time, as i may have told multiple people many a time already, i easily feel out of place. it’s as if i were really out of my body, in a nearby space afloat, watching this self go about his routine, mindless and/or mechanical.

on my best days, i’d like to believe i am a functional solpsist, if that’s a thing.

from time to time, there needs to be some sort of reminder from this self to let the whole of me know that everything—literally the whole universe, as per scientific suggestions—leads to heat death. it’s not exactly aphrodisiac that in telling this whole notion of maximum entropy, one would make one’s partner undress quicker than a collapsing star.

however, with the right person at the right time using a mouth and words and spit that are maced with peppermint-ish bliss, it could put things into perspective.

maybe i can do this quarterly, this twisted reminder, a periodic self-love full of methods to vanquish the selected segments of reality i particularly dislike at the time, until i recover from whatever blurred wound it is that i’m recovering from. i don’t even know if science can back me up on this. i’m not even sure if i want science to back me up on this, because it might entail a whole lot of paperworks. and my life right now is just date after date of corporate diligence which i’d like to screw up because they are becoming toxic. i just want the damn thing to beam me up, and let me leave already, for realz.

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Entry # 291

Date: Thu, 25 Aug 2016

excitement is a palatable convulsion, really, but i don’t mean the wholesome ladybug-on-a-tea-leaf thingy. what i do mean and intend to do: i’d plant a thousand wild shrubs on a naked mountain side for your breath of easterlies, and wait each different day for them to reach you. i’d kiss a brick i picked for you for you, and plaster that same brick with a tonne of other bricks (note-worthy: each one underwent similar drool-smothering via chapped lips), and build an odd-looking enclosure…

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Entry # 292

Date: Mon, 25 Jan 2016

the jar of rain—or the imagery of it, because minds of today no longer construct weathered abstracts from the gallows of grey matter—throbs upon the stillness of drought, letting loose droplets through its lid’s perforation.

although on sight of site, there are really good bits scattered about: an old guy collecting his wits, an arachnid having its 6-legged lunch, among other things. when liquid touches loam, when all the gush grates ground, the weed-infested trachea of this landscape no more scratches its tunnels dry; no longer does it chant for the empty space beyond to outgrow its current volume.

the rain, however, does not pave way to the bloom of greens, nor a better mutation for our genetic make-up. it does not lubricate the gears of a nearby river; the birds do not buy into the weight of its low octaves. it does not inspire anyone.

thick grows the senses, dull and somewhat immune to certain modern meteorological shifts. we are too busy grinding life—or, at least, our copy of it—to fit the folders and, ultimately, the shredder; too immersed in what we do to notice that the precipitation, when it comes in contact with dust, brings to the drain the particles it has collected earthbound.

but one only has to scan closely in tight spots in order to fully grasp the scope of why things sort themselves with the passage of time. this i have observed. perhaps, it’s the magic of thermodynamics fusing with pseudo-intellectualism. sometimes i sleepwalk through it without even meaning to. and the amazing thing about this simple invocation of wisdom, albeit somnambulistic, is that, the toxic at hand usually (dis)solves its existence in the maelstrom of universal forces. to the fast-paced, this won’t be the case. however, for all of those as austere as i, the lethargy this rain has caused cuts off obligations tethered therein.

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Entry # 293

Date: Wed, 03 Feb 2016

the current person of interest showed up last night, which was odd. i mean, all innuendo-filled dreams i have had are odd.

anyway, i sat on a toilet, musing outwards the glass panes. what kind of architect would approve of such dada design?

no one but me, sure; that is, had i been one.

a figure of a woman then emerged from the far end blur, approaching. R seemed to have flushed the dread from her brows, all reminiscent of causalgia. she surprised me when she went for the door and opened it. R had this naughty grin which by gazing my clotheless person alone could have caused.

“do you want to take a shower with me?” she asked.

intentions unfolded yet might have been misinterpreted as they traveled the conduit.

now, what noble cause. of course, what is there to exclaim except expletives? her teeth breached further into the organs. without another word, though, she casually moved forward, the open door now at the bottom of to-burn listicles.

and so, much after fantastic whims had peeled my eyes real, there beyond the tall walls, i wandered off thinking of it the whole morning, how frozen i was. i replayed the whole thing as flawless as i could as i again zone the fuck out, filling in between the quiet speeches better l'esprit de l'escalier iterations.

i gave myself something between back-pat and gut-kick for coming up with such an imaginative stumbled-upon scenario. i mean, to whom do i owe this flair of a peeve? at least, it kept me productive the entire daytime.

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Entry # 294

Date: Sun, 07 Feb 2016

present self confuses future self. same is true for the other way around. same is also true for no way around. same is untrue for all year round. similarity is false. time does not stand alone. we also have space.

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Entry # 295

Date: Tue, 09 Feb 2016

the audience promises to provide statements to put to record through dimensions, but we all know their physique (or lack of it) pitches little candor and is thus inconsequential, so long as their contribution can be read.

and what is there to observe and write of?

two people meeting for the first time, only that these two are one person coming from two different times. person b meets their younger self, person a, with no context to hold nor external affirmation to nod their way. they don’t have the slightest inkling that an audience scrutinizes their every move from the comforts of beyond-the-planes. both of them are too surprised to notice anything except themselves, both seemingly looking into a portal that gives no beginning nor end to this dream. is this an experiment? does it matter?

the room is damn lit, blaring. in the middle of the room, a table invites them with two cups of coffee. the chairs, too made of wood, look swelling.

TWO PEOPLE—one older than the other, yet the sameness fades. the audience waits. person a reaches for the face, but the other instincively swats the approaching appendage. nine years of ignominy do not sequester a better pounding for the head. we already have the heartache of nostalgia to thank for that. however, when one slumps back to the chair, one cannot help but think how dreadful 2005 was.

the two do have concerns for each other, but they are rather menacing for the third party, the audience, to listen to. as the two stand up and part, the room goes damn dark. person a is returned to their timeline: walking back to classroom. person b, amid the flurry of uniforms, plunges to their office to scour for lost papers. both of them have no recollection of meeting the other, nor does the meeting make any noticeable flinchings.

the audience, however, has some essay to do.

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Entry # 296

Date: Thu, 11 Feb 2016

BULACAN—but are you truly the soft premises that a weary traveler such as i can dive into? the wombs of many march forth before thee bearing flowers to offer thy wretched palms. i myself have been driven by the scents of lips to busy myself along the rustic pipes, although clearly, mine was purely business. your skies were golden, even after the blues. more so were your chicharon, and i only have my heart to clog.

i have met a local merchant, and he offered me your women? why was i not surprised? even there, i clawed the scabs that i thought were already dampened. out of fairness, though, i must say that the merchant can be kind in many ways his creaking joints cannot be to him. this is regardless, in my opinion, whether you rub him at the footing or bite him with wrong teeth. his advice largely comprised differentiating rafflesia from rose. olfactory nerves augment the missing pieces of preconceived half-truths, i could say, but Bulacan, knowing it was around us, would quell any unknowns for all we care.

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Entry # 297

Date: Mon, 15 Feb 2016

the last hot dregs of molten vitrine can only define a tradition that sprouted from the catacombs only as good as it is remembered. love intensifies its blandness as a function of time!

ho! ho! ho!

and now you owe me a huge chunk for imparting a clever wordplay that is sure to go mainstream in two and a half sun lives. by then, hmm, epochs will have stretched a plethora of asymmetric organs into a new breeding ground for celestial bodies, borrowing heat from long burning mementos, their bed a queen size of an expansive unlit motel cubicle.

there will be the terrors, o, sprawling inside to question the possible birth of kopong. gametes will be hydrogen, then metallic, then synthetic. moderate—only moderate jabs of discomfort to trudge up the steep hillside before an imp appears immediately to spear the spines. then, the rolling away from such pinnacle of pain, jack’s crown abreast.

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Entry # 298

Date: Thu, 18 Feb 2016

The Boy did not make himself present that day due to conflicting hours of daytime, in which my assignment overlapped with his processions. He sent his team instead. We all walked around the warehouses looking for spots of error and fortunately found none. They did a good job, in my opinion. I can’t wait to show Rose what this gig has become: nice. As I glanced back at what Ruel and I surveyed just moments ago, I thought that Jessy would have been proud. While the presence of a nearby graveyard encompasses mildly a mind-altering disservice to someone’s deathly absence, here we looked among ourselves and rolled up our sleeves with only the grease of glutton scraping our tunnels.

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Entry # 299

Date: Tue, 23 Feb 2016

while i must not rationalize the different callings of pining for people, in this detachment i reluctantly weave a storm from the strings i know i will jeopardize soon, eligible enough to stir the discouraging facts into purposes known to hyperbolic space that can only be repurposed by one as classic as my overdue books.

but if it means anything, i am easily appeased. on down days, i resign to the bedrock of superposition and think of another ‘myself’ dedicating its existence in assuming the ivory life, there, i hope, in some major universe that does not house sentient life force already on its homestretch to self-destruction.

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Entry # 300

Date: Fri, 26 Feb 2016

the unmentioned little fights contra forgetfulness rush to mind. i don’t know if i should be ashamed or what, but if any of what i am babbling about is consistently for banana peels, it’s only because i have an affinity with mental masturbation in all its forms. and here we part.

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Entry # 301

Date: Mon, 14 Mar 2016

in the future i am abducted by a blue beam. it will be my first space walk, i know, but not the first time i will be so out there.

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Entry # 302

Date: Fri, 26 Feb 2016

i feel that the atmosphere they sustain (in the figurative sense) might be bad for business, but i am all for isolated good-muzak diners with hardly any travelers passing by. shrugs maybe the reason why such aesthetic (?) still holds up is because business is actually good and rakes in decent revenue. and that i should worry less of their welfare and more of my own, especially since i recently participated in the grand idea of tripping back to south from Aparri (!) by land, approximately 600 kilometers.

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Entry # 303

Date: Sat, 27 Feb 2016

people we the, barred from the portent of cake, scrounge about the box as promised. sometimes, to diversify, the mix of saline and saliva will have to do. we give no qualms in its description.

as per every problem, part of the process is what has been given. in order to feel again, we rest on concrete. it is the mildew speckled along the breadth almost mirroring the viscosity of cosmopolitan goo, that we want to recognize, even with malaise of motion removing the shape of pelvis, as we step back out into the light, groggy, wishing, fishing the keys of car or pad in a stitch.

they have managed to recycle old reptile bones into lux that indubitably decompresses the vigor of intestines, now seeping toward other cavities. somewhere in the process, a group of people hammers down speculations of the illegitimate future on a slate. somewhere, also, we point out the inconsistencies in the computation. this act, while convincing to some not within perimeter, only furthers the agenda.

there is heat bearing upon us that needs to be traced for dictating a hopeful presage, ideally lasting three (3) generations of dog-heaven-on-earth. unless we are down to do a thousand or more breast strokes in a day when god finally condenses into a surge.

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Entry # 304

Date: Tue, 01 Mar 2016

them kids they were a-swerving. blinking lights oranged the lanes. the city had fallen in and out of desperation.

it was the year of mixtape, when trends outlawed the magnetic coils. even then, people looked busy, smelled busy, but felt busted. everywhere you could throw your arms around, and always the receiving end, in a display of fission, would break apart into tiny molecules, the ashes a hint of mint. one could look into their reflection in a hesitant blitz and still come up with a solipsistic overview of being “lively, impeccably immortal atop celestial tombstones.”

as old calendars go and new ones replace them, the limited chances of one to throw a fit of beauteous choke for a fellow of deserving feat have been reduced. largely it is because people think they are fooled or felt that their ribs have atrophied over the years, when really

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Entry # 305

Date: Thu, 10 Mar 2016

what i did see, instead of the muddy version of you in silhouette that i am now forgetting, was the result of a stellar undoing: two parallel forms being themselves in such haze. there in the coven a spirit brooded over his reflection. the flesh he chased was not the flesh he coveted, for it belonged to a different person. he ran to escape back into a vessel, which he could not have reached in that soundless lump of a place. he knew of debt that must be attended to. of which life time, however, he would only know when all save one breath expires.

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Entry # 306

Date: Fri, 01 Apr 2016

i just browsed the Engine for free pdf copies of Two-Minute Mysteries featuring a certain Dr. Haledjian the sleuth, but the results it yielded lead me not to e-books but to (some of, not all, i think) the fictitious cases themselves. the softbounds i once had i borrowed (read: stole) from a family friend who has been spending his dawn perplexed by some mystery or thriller. and those same books someone borrowed (again, note the term) from me.

each book (i had two) is a compilation of cases as experienced through Haledjian’s wit. and each case is suffixed with a question that slides seamlessly in. don’t worry though: the answer immediately follows, but only that the text appears inverted and in a tiny font, much like the ones seen in magazine pop quizzes. so from a passerby’s perspective, they w-wait. the earth just shook indifferently and i know now that somewhere, perhaps miles below us, it has always been the case: the constant motion, the mysterious engagement of all best and worst cases.

the query hangs, yet the the magic happens posthumously.

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Entry # 307: if it actually helps

Date: Wed, 13 Apr 2016

I always try to pick up unsaid things where I left them; fight with coherence and against decadence, but a lifetime of my being suspended amid dismays and my inability to handle each of them well, has led me to seek refuge in the abstract. I read somewhere that in such a time that many things contradict common knowledge, making no sense makes sense. So I distort. I rummage through the bins of Absurd movements, and scavenge what I can to come up with something I can stand on.

When I was a kid, I thought that everything was a haze. I even consulted my father for that. I don’t remember his exact response but I do remember disliking it. I knew right then what would become of my internal compass. My struggle is not because I have daydreaming tendencies. If anything, solipsism (or whatever term better fits, bc rly hu gives ddamn) dampens the magnitude of struggle, in that the sooner I distance myself from the disorder, the safer my reality will be for me. And that, my people, is one for the gloom books.

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Entry # 308

Date: Thu, 21 Apr 2016

NOTHING has to be consistent after losing hours of rest to some contemporary cyst which thrives in low-fi summons. After all, restlessness is a millenial hype, if I’m not mistaken. Or maybe I am mistaken, and that the prime un-mover might actually be loneliness. Or a mind subdued to hold in higher standard the bare minimum. Among the ticks that decontextualize the moment I begin to sense the immediate world reaching to me, those lightning-paved minutes have been the quietest of dimensions. This world spins quicker now than a regular night at bistro incognito years ago, when vigor was still consistent. However, all remains harmless unless I move. NOTHING ventured, NOTHING lost.

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Entry # 309

Date: Tue, 03 May 2016

the occasional misses hit me. headaches can cause delusion, and one quickly goes around it by hydration. but certain types of delusion are not of heat, although my kind always refer to entropy as a possible romantic idea, however broken it is. big, fuzzy words that mean little when boiled to bones: i need them like i need my elementary mathematics, in this case.

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Entry # 310

Date: Wed, 04 May 2016

i am thinking of including the ‘Would you kindly’ phrase in my e-mails starting tomorrow whenever i would be asking for something from someone. so if you, fellow gamer, think it would be funny, holler at me would you kindly? this will be our inside joke. and you know how i love inside jokes.

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Entry # 311

Date: Tue, 17 May 2016

the three-inch mattress, on whose fabric sweat have had me bleached (and only me), could not restore a haze from any night’s summoning. i swear that the bus had been blazing on a highway when a huge aircraft ripped the afternoon sky apart. fire everywhere. lucky the wheels. windows broke before the titan’s peal. when i said huge, i really meant mountainous, like everest uprooted itself from gaia and gained flight, but realized it could not escape the pull. imagine an aircraft so enormous the distance could only blur so much of its details—heat, revelations, &c. i looked at the driver—an office mate, i then realized—undisturbed. we began swerving away from fallout. buildings crumbled out in the back. fissures spoke only in double-cleansing voodoo tongue. soon the rest of this dream world would implode. if pessoa heard of this, his ecstasy, of course, would be as little as possible. i had his notes in my drafts but i always forget to check up on him so as to parallel my patterns with such an observant perspective.

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Entry # 312

Date: Sun, 29 May 2016

the longest moments evolve to the longest hours without accounting for the extensive humdrum narrative. one glosses over the numerals expressed on father’s face. this is the initial reaction. then, one memorizes the anatomy of wristwatch, already voidful after excessive consumption of cocktails. in it, the burden of dilation encumbers the faculties. one nods back, tilts the head, and inspires the method that which busts twice the volume just nigh the premises on another’s orifice. the technique is not perfect, nor the fluid ambrosia; but we can all agree that something of this degree is simply a sorrow so secretive it sweetens the aftertaste of one bad, bad afternoon.

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Entry # 313

Date: Mon, 30 May 2016

just a few jiffies past the 20-kopong-kopong marker (or the many, many lunar phases after a supposed global decongestion), my feet sprang up and the rest of my spine followed. the faint smell of provincial-rain past caught up to cancel the party you weren’t even invited in. you wonder where on the blueprint i last stepped, but true to this photosensitivity, none of it is riveting nor concrete for a textile approach, that is one-inch punching pavements. around then, i had limped where vehicles were naught, the pondering too diverse for me to just be complacent. any overpass had dragged against linear motion. any lane a come-hither hand for a swan dive to asphalt. any movement netted negative displacement. any colegiala demure was a getaway jetski disappearing into the wounds of horizon. if it felt right then, i did nothing at all to postpone the eventual transcription of person’s common disenchantment, wherein i’d rather not confuse shock with an overdue decay.

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Entry # 314: PROBLEMS

Date: Thu, 09 Jun 2016

  1. the carnival put off anxiety. everyone marched in with charmed items. your sister, i think, bought one. it was an embroidered article that covered her whole head. she did not want her face to be seen. people, in fact, did not mind other people for carrying or wearing outrageous items, so long as each one did not harm anybody. in fact, nothing from the carnival were rigged with harmful side effects. it was those cheap knockoffs found in the sleazy-looking stalls just outside the venue. word got around quick to never get anything from anyone that was not within the official premises of happy. anyway, as for this [REDACTED] affair—[REDACTED], because of its brevity and shock—we ordered our magic food and sat down at one of the public benches. there you, your sister, and i ate motionless, the air stung of desolation. but to me, regardless of the status, it was fine dining. any food with you is fine dining. any happening with you calls for celebration. the pause pawned more idle talks, and by the last bite, we were dead. when you spoke, you asked whether i could give you and your sister a lift from off that place to somewhere greener. this reminded me of my actual vehicle that i parked in the shady part of the compound. the second i moved i realized that always out of synch the calling of your shapely face that puts my person to question, but even in the flicker of years, your absence only clarifies the image. this brings to mind the process of developing a photograph in a darkroom. from a seemingly blank slate, the memory ceases to be just of temporal dimension as it surfaces into clarity…
  2. when the course of action has been implemented, and the following heaviness has precipitated over the spot where a doggone companion once was, one meddles not with the comfort of orderliness it is supposed to bring but with the deluge it has caused. in every drop, there is only a faint smell of the yesterdays spent in chains, palms wide open, chasing, just behind the nape, as if to still the free spirit. in every crook, there is only a semblance of pain that awaits the restart. one is dragged to smell the plants, yet one pulls back at the thought of every verdant and vermillion brushing on the side. the heaviness here mentioned is a numbing experience, altogether different from the chills one might have when one imagines a transaction with said doggone companion. this is no mere mechanical verb. this is life as it commutes from points a to b. no similar breed, no moving meat could compare nor could ever replace an ache so bleak one forces against the laws of universe but tumbles hard to landing…
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Entry # 315

Date: Tue, 21 Jun 2016

our limits have been refined through endless walks. the smart watch on your wrist is keen on your making the next minutest jaunts; says you have made ten thousand steps today. you keep the pace steady even after your quota. behind you, i have already dropped to the pavement to cross my legs for a while and let a normal force deaden some nerves. then, i unweave upon same normal force, same deathly numbness adjusting my lower half.

one taketh form after another. i have an anatomy configured to mismatch yours. fitness is a dubious paradigm to me what patience is a virtue to you. it can only affect me to a point, knowing how little of the air i breathe is really transparent.

you look over your shoulder and see me trying to catch up. phone in hand, i show you a map of the quickest route to panic room so you wouldn’t mind the dredging of thick, voluminous slime that once belonged to a thousand animated mammals.

first, on paper. and, if it is theoretically sound, then on a wise choice. i show you the final draft, just in case. in fact, let the elusive wisdom be the basis of all future makings.

on the last milestone, i’d kiss you a tonne or not, whichever produces the highest note… you are a [REDACTED] vision, a prognosis borne out of ancient wound mutating to a dense flesh. it was a horrible plot twist, i thought, but it doesn’t make the reality any less favorable.

we go back to the beginning, long before the crown has been broken. the consequence of acting out our thoughts could have been suppressed to trivial quandaries if only it omitted the bloodline stumbling on this little show, its intent excluding basic etiquette like knock, knocking. we rose and dusted the crusted fluid off of our hair, and swallowed the liquid iron gushing from our gums. this was where we hoped to release tension but only got the beta version. all detritus of sanguineum compacted, here abolished.

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Tweet-like witticisms back in the day.

  1. Spontaneous conflagration is the result of the heat of the moment.
  2. a face that launched thousands of fake social media accounts
  3. Home is where you hang your enemy’s head.
  4. I will find a neck and bury my face in it until the pheromones wave me down to sleep.
  5. tales arriving and departing the mind of a metaphysical new-wave enthusiast that might or might not lead to existentialism
  6. is ending better than fending
  7. succeeding in turning people off with my boorish swoons since ‘93
  8. The graffiti on the streets and bridges offer better philosophy and romance than I can.
  9. I am a boring individual who persists living in a world where people are becoming less and less attentive.
  10. I can’t commit a heavenly error without receiving a flaming feedback.
  11. Not to Miggy you out or anything, but I think that nicknames are good substitutes for ugly verbs.
  12. We defend the things we think we can.
  13. Losing times are mostly dedicated to brain teasers or the answers to the most philosophically drunk questions, so please try to forgive me when I talk about them.
  14. Something about belief mattered greatly.
  15. Mine are not flimsy limbs but constrictive appendages that will suffocate the luvste out of you should you dare go nigh hither.
  16. How about leaving them in a low-quality containment, and let them sort themselves out.
  17. at least let me know if i ever crossed your mind
  18. If you wished hard enough, thought about it long enough, dreamed painfully enough, the feeling just naturally comes.
  19. unintentional precognition sprawled everywhere
  20. Think twice before trusting someone with two mobile phones.
  21. Pursuit of distress is pursuit of sadness is pursuit of madness is pursuit of stale coffee in stale, cold morning.
  22. Jokes lose their purpose when you tell them to people who often get involve in bar fights.
  23. Imagining an opposite sex version of yourself is absurd as it sounds.
  24. Apologize when you step on someone’s foot.
  25. Be mad, but be respectful still.
  26. sext: i will bang you like i bang my door—carefully
  27. any song can be a driving song if one is so willing to adjust the track and go with the crack.
  28. got apprehended for smuggling liquor in the cemetery, and other tales from the crypt
  29. smh: sending my henchmen
  30. where tensions are stronger, time seems slower
  31. poor guy wanted to be a baker, but sadly, he did not have enough dough.
  32. one is outside his/her own containment when tainted with the bacchanalian devils, and it is in this trance that his/her intelligence is hyped thither and yon.
  33. a booking at a hotel on the moon, a tour to pluto, an interstellar travel ticket—among the three, the third one cosmos.
  34. aren’t bunnies supposed to be untalkative?
  35. wherever they may be, i hope to see them again.
  36. the best torrents are overrated.
  37. a lengthy correspondence that comprises unnecessary (amount of) dismissive remarks means brain matter is stretched, sometimes carefully, to its limits, usually an attempt to soothe one’s ego.
  38. a rotten phoenix rises from the rashes
  39. the ambient to my hiphop, my jazz on bebop, but never the bieber of pop
  40. the trickiest part of being so hungry is when one is too tired to prepare one’s food
  41. wondering what it is like to be near a lavender field
  42. a place rigged with stupid and crazy might just be the inspiration you need, if you stayed long enough to become attached to it.
  43. fate looks back on itself as a franchise of human disillusionment because it is without doubt a product of another bored species.
  44. you are an out-of-date medicine i plan on ingesting just so i can get off this splitting headache.
  45. are the souls in heaven smiling perpetually?
  46. i like my cartoons weird, if not childhood-bruising.
  47. drinking moonshine is nonsense, i believe.
  48. adding friends and family on social media might mean you can’t post nonsense, cryptic texts on facebook ever again, including lyrics from your favorite indie bands, because they would think you’re going off the charts again.
  49. how to get out of a labyrinth, and other amazing lifehacks 6
  50. fm static is a bandwidth a lot of negative feedback.
  51. the blue screen of death is a huge turn-off.
  52. you think it’s petrichor, but really it’s vitriol.
  53. the world stinks in mysterious ways.
  54. although the world is full of art, life sometimes is but a fart.
  55. i did not mind to change my socks; zero neatness nets zero fucks.
  56. diamond extraction, and other hoar ore stories
  57. sweet sleep is the post-afterparty movement
  58. i like the idea of liking the idea of how an idea can be, like, unlikely liked or, like, likely disliked.
  59. ‘unfollowing everyone’, and it begins with u.
  60. having a platonic relationship with geometric solids
  61. how bothersome it is to come to terms with yourself, to settle those arguments alone, left hemisphere versus the right, or the entirety of dear brain against itself.
  62. may the palms never get tired of holding the head uninterested at ’living the moment’.
  63. an exposition of gazes elucidating the phenomena that could have happened, but since i am the slightly differential, i owe you another explanation.
  64. untouched fruits, too ripe now and wild-seed swollen, are let go from the branch that had held them for some time.
  65. overheated laptop is in its self-defeating behavior
  66. a world in which the hair strands obediently sways against the bashing of gales is a world depleted of hair products, and what a marvelous place would that be.
  67. either frustration or just plain dumb, it’s something i feel when, however hard i play my imaginary ocarina, no mythical bird comes to my aid to take me away.
  68. fridges stink when left unplugged / freezers undermine the meat / fruits so begin to rot / what to make of this heat
  69. because i want some hair strands to be pasted above my eyelids, I say, “may eyebrow these?”
  70. the paper strip in the fortune cookie you just opened says, “INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER”
  71. cheers to the hours of wasted development, of haphazardly improvised philosophy, and may you and i never get over it.
  72. what rescues you from the synthetic pop of the world?
  73. *quotes Bukowski in a grad school application essay*
  74. how do i love thee? let me count clichés
  75. due to sleeplessness that directly skews my eating habits, i reiterate unto myself those unattained ambitions still stirring about me.
  76. when i think of freedom, i think of falling, which is weird since there is no option for me to go to except down.
  77. boredom stirring the structure into a frame of sadness
  78. when all you had to do is follow that damn train
  79. after pining comes the grit
  80. the art of snoring discreetly but audibly
  81. the ability to snag attention even from a great distance, solitude, truly rare and unique: the perks of being a pall flower
  82. python as a scarf
  83. i withdrew money from the ATM; a big heap—80M
  84. ’tis time for the terrible accumulation of noise of handheld horns and “i slept for a year” quips.
  85. one of the quirks of lycanthropy is the ability to become a weirdwolf.
  86. there is penitence in consuming callow versions of oriental dumplings obtained from a dilapidated corner of nowhere.
  87. there settles at the pinnacle of existential hardship very little glory.
  88. recent english linguistics paper recommends that every sentence should end with the 25th alphabet letter, and here’s y.
  89. interstellar 5555 directed by christopher nolan
  90. n reasons why “n” should be a counting number
  91. gods bark there at the distance
  92. okay but plutonic kisses
  93. thank the soundtracks crafted through osmosis (and, of course, the soulful people behind each of them) for saving semi-okay films, thus making life spent watching less disappointing.
  94. indistinct chatter at the tapsilugan
  95. beam me up, scully
  96. he who leaves for where in which point in time.
  97. obscures everything carefully // ad hominem
  98. is my coughing thrash verses a reckless behavior?
  99. maybe there is niceness in boarding unknown engines that take people elsewhere.
  100. the dream is to write at least 200 pages of walkthrough for an obscure rpg in purple prose
  101. who here wants to be speculating alone with their electronics and, immediately after that, their thoughts?
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  1. Reminds me of a paper called “Bullshit Makes The Art Grow Profounder” (Turpin et. al., 2019). Some 20(20) years ago when I last visited an art museum (or was it just gallery?), I couldn’t help but roll my eyes on a lot of pieces’ description cards that seemingly always include how the artist “explores” this or that. ↩︎

  2. Run free and wild, Buddy and Hogan, wherever you are. ↩︎

  3. n-gon is a polygon with n sides. E.g., hexagon is also 6-gon. ↩︎

  4. Defense of the Ancients. I only ever played the one in Warcraft III: Frozen Throne. More at Wikipedia↩︎

  5. A male neighbor of utmost detachment to human species; cool neighbor ↩︎

  6. “technically speaking, labyrinths only have a single path, and (minotaurs aside) are fairly easy to navigate (as opposed to mazes that have dead ends and multiple, branching paths etc). this is your completely useless fact of the day.” Thanks, Tom ↩︎

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