an old man who smells like freshly squeezed orange puts a fresh spell of oblivion in the air along the two blocks stretch of broadway. it’s a pleasant way to forget a night of stage wreck- an evening suffocated with the ineffective dramatization and romanticism of languages. it’s a subtle delivery from the invasive memories of an institution that claims greatness only in merits but not in actions.

memory is a bitch.

erasing parts of it is a relief.

22 years ago

mamang, my grandma would always warn me not to look down at my bowels.

“a glance would suck memories out of you.” she would say.


indeed. shit sucks memories out of you.

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