falling into subterranean sleep, I notice such blackness bypasses a pinprick of light; dreams are avenues to enigmas presenting themselves as someone forgotten. sleep laves labyrinths with incandescent sequins. everybody is strange here, interlocutor commune, still yet nothing I can understand – better be braille, or contrapuntal dance, but still you uttered nothing; your locutionary silence seeks no contentment.
i have never heard such riot of laughter toss me out of sleep. perhaps it was our undoing, our deepest, secretive entrails unloosen us in such fashion worth depicting as obscenely courageous, the width of arm-span the size of outstretched islands, and stepping into that particular wideness, are my small feet traipsing swiftly throbbing in the heat of choosing: to go or to stay – cyclic spectacle that eschews dailiness that I know I may have forgotten you in faces of lampposts, the pared skin of onion, the gleaming washlines, the white feral on the rooftops, a blank piece of paper, a munificent Bulacan sky, or any sky at that since they are all bleached and they arrive not with wind but with lashes: the color of white that flagellates, that blinds, that oscillates in space which is then reduced to the back of my hand: I know this. I know all of this.
we were not naked, yet something buried in the skin reveals itself disarmed, mumbling an earnest palaver of questions I have no answers for. what happened? where are we? should we just – die? an echoing reverb, or simply a song – a metronomic carousal of swan-song I have heard before persists and maybe all this time, we have been awake, in separate cities.