when every morning the things that used to sooth exhausted heart and hands become unwelcome stalkers that assault the mind like smog and fumes bathing Manila;
when the obnoxious cycle of age-old lies and greed grows stronger every minute, where can one find deliverance?
or is there such thing as deliverance anymore? refuge of pen from pain? but it only accentuates the misery;
the faster the words populate the page, the deeper the memory stabs the heart; yet, is there any other way than this catharsis?