22:06:04; Twinkling Tuesday; 22:37

No. of devirginized books scattered in my bedside table: 9. No. of books I haven’t covered until now: 5. (See how busy I am?) Ideal no. of nutritionists to interview: 2. No. of target nutriotionists: 0.

Dear Niwee,

Hermits, residents of Atlantis and tailed humans have recently flocked the hospitals. It was too much, they say.

The disease is too blatant to ignore. Sadly, the cure is beyond anyone’s reach. Our old driver accompanied me last night when his ringing tone erupted, echoed by the frustrated Salbakuta member’s phone behind him. After he announced his plan to change his tone, the van, as if on cue, played the chorus in full blast. I, the try-hard kid of subtlety, shook my head in amusement.

And, good Lord, I was seated inches away from a colleague who selflessly shared his Last Song Syndrome: South Border’s “Rainbow“.

Trip home won’t be complete without hearing it, I expected.

I was damn wrong.

Baclaran was silent. It was too silent as if a warning less social annihilation occurred that morning. The pirated music was sealed within a chained box. Only the skies dared to give a sobbing sound.

People were either running to the nearest roof for protection from the firmament’s piercing tears or were enslaved within the prison bus.

Who on earth could possibly erase Baclaran out of the map? Bong Revilla never commanded fear in Quiapo; could this band of uniformed men kill the heart of Baclaran with a bullet?

As the song argues, there’s a rainbow always after the rain.

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