i. the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal armistice of quagmire and wind: leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii when it rains, it bows to no one; when it genuflects to no bird, it trills on the red of the moseying hour— nobody sees the Hibiscus. only the children of the vandal.
iii. last summer we had makeshift bubble machines and in the high-rise of the twilight's cradle, we ran viciously against the humdrum town blowing bushels of laughter at the dreary populace — the brooms to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust mounting the ether. we hurtled across the infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed to our locomotives.
iv. the Semana Santa had gone by and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush of wind and laboring silence, held no reprise — the Hibiscus, it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v. somewhere amid the hubbub of city, there is a pendulum of line biting the shore of waiting repeatedly. only steel scaffolds erected and no flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me they look like gumamelas, finally, yet i am