it's four something in the morning and i'm up. the windows, still curtained with night. and i'm scrubbing the sink.
on the wall, my phone blinks. i remember van gogh. how terrible yellow is! L has called twice, no, thrice last night.
and i feel like writing. anything. a letter to mama. an email to a friend who lost his newspaper job in manila. who was it who said that one writes to shake off an unbearable weight?
"what are you doing?" this man's voice, like the bilging light, seeps slowly out of my room. i walk over to the foot of the bed. such exhilaration, to notice his toes. they are breathless on the crushed pillows.
i tell him "be right back" and tiptoe back to the sink. i tear a piece of paper towel and wipe off the constellation of wet stars glistening on the counter top. i feel responsible for the coming of dawn and the end of night.
