Wiping dirt off my face and thinking about the dirt covering another strange place, unreachable, here I am closed in, out in the open for the elements to devour, to grow older with each rotation of the sun, metabolizing at death’s door.
Unscrewing the cap off my juice that the dirty child I walk past can’t afford, I say "walang" to his open hand. ’Where are your parents?’, I’m thinking. There’s nothing I can do. At the end of every story is some kind of love to contemplate, I don’t want to learn anymore.
What good is someone’s story untold? There must be angels; there absolutely must be or most stories are for no benefit whatsoever. Everyone lives a metaphor, some kind of similie, a story for nobody, or a story for the third world of angels.
Wiping the dirt from my eyes and not from some place else out of sight, that’s for later- perhaps much later, I cross another third world "street",- it’s the concrete rubble where the motor vehicles speed along. Making room along my pathway for another wretched dog that likely wishes he was dead, I remember the screeching and thumps of suicidal animals that we hear on our "street" every week, more lucky corpses at rest, calling the more fortunate local vermin from their underground world to another meal. They eat well here.
Staring into the third world the glowing television screen offers, turning the channel away from the dirty, I try to clear the dirty from my mind. Another female body for sale, another murder, another scream, another attack, but don’t worry, the cops are on it. I find my clear channels of escape, and others wonder why I want to stare at a bird resting on a placid crisp body of water. It’s heaven somewhere today, in many places. There must be angels there, or are they busy collecting stories?