post temp file. so as not to erase. deleting is a bad habit.

Manila tells me her truth in a garlic smelling kitchen. I like her truth; It’s a story of the time she fell in love with me. Well, I fell in love with her too. I was telling this to you in our light filled kitchen when London phoned. He told you stories of wars and fighting. Well, you’d have to leave soon. You were leaving Manila to write stories for London.

The Bamboo plant listens to our conversations. He holds them together in his leafy palm. He rubs then together. He makes energy in the form of friction. I watch him while you talk about going down south and the excitement of actually getting to report on something of real value. I question this notion of “real value.”
Really. Real. I say. Really valuable.
Really. You say, This is real life shit.
Oh, and Manila’s not real like I’m not real or these chairs or this kitchen.
You’ve gone all crazy again.
The plant needs watering. I say. I get out the watering can. I fill it up and empty it out.

The next morning, you tell me all about the ethics of good journalism. I tell you how I don’t think it’s a good profession for lovers. I see all of the passion pour out of you; you were hungry for me once.
Now, your notebooks are arranged in separate colonies on the floor. Your hands are colonizers; they fearlessly seize foreign territories and collapse empires.