“I write for myself and strangers.” — Gertrude Stein
Where I live, we have a home development mutual fund that everybody calls, Pag-IBIG. It's an acronym for Pagtutulungan sa Kinabukasan: Ikaw, Bangko Industriya at Gobyerno (Working Together for the Future: You, Industrial Banks and the Government - my translation,
Today is going to be a hard day. Almost a year ago I lost my grandfather. Today I haven't got my own father back yet. Not quite. He hasn't fully moved on. I haven't fully moved on. How will we
"There's a dark joy in me that laughs at your meager gifts."
Grown-up talk with my father during lunch today about my future. Specifically: how my net income is doing, if I'm on my way towards earning a million (hah!), moving out, and more plans for when I'm thirty. It was scary.
Edith Tiempo passed away yesterday. She was 92. I feel a strange kind of sadness. I will never meet her. I won't pretend how much an impact she has made on my life --- I didn't go to the workshop,
1. I was just looking at photos of cats painting on walls and blank canvases. Before that, I was staring out the window, spurred out of my chair with the sudden noise. The culprit: fireworks at past one in the morning
I loved this for the sound ever since I first heard it. — I can't remember how many times I've stood there, before the woods of my life, before the evenings of my life. How it called to me, like a
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