9 pm in Cubao, It was only my second bottle, but how come I can't recall whether I left the house just an hour ago? Ah, I wanted to escape from the chaos that is the metro. But I loathe this particular place, so why here again? The record stores were even shut like they'll never open doors again. That's another magical thing about vintage shops—they look hopeless except they're everything but. But I'm half grateful, at least one less memory of this place are shut closed, too. Though I am less woeful, knowing this is not just another equally less woeful night. After the last bottle, I blew the city a kiss, bracing myself for the unfamiliar ride. I've stopped counting the months in which I've been dying to see the sun rise by the beach and not by the concrete jungles of BGC. I softly let go of all my uncertainties, but holding onto the excitement firmly. Oh, I can't wait much longer for the ocean breeze.