If you let this chance go by, your heart will eventually become as dry and brittle as my skeleton. – The Glass Man (in Amelie)
My mother: “Anak, tula ba ito?” (“Child, is this a poem?”)
My sister, aged 11: “Ate Lyza, why doesn’t it rhyme?”
I lost reason / to write you that letter / I owe you.
Q: What is your body after you have left? Also, what is it really, to talk to someone on a Tuesday and find out by Friday that they’re dead? Sometimes, in the same day. What will it be like when I live in that life soon? People dying, differentiated only by the time and dates of their deaths.
Books. The desire to read. And read. And read. And leave bookmarks like footprints.