I can hear the whirring sound of the food osterizer from the kitchen. In front is the blaring of nonstop odes to money said in the worst of ways by television ads.

A quiet Sunday night can be very hard to have.

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Commute

It’s 6:30 in the morning and the MRT is stranded here at Santolan terminal. I can’t see anger on people’s faces, not disappointment, no not even any sliver of irony. I see only a quiet resignation akin to what one thinks he sees on the face of someone who is to be hanged.

Good morning, overcast Manila!