Module I.

[Initializing Connection]

Initializing connection…

Server found…

Allowing feed from host…

The human mind is an intricately designed Central Processing Unit developed by Asthenia Corporations: a solid, dome-shaped, concrete-walled structure with irregular convolutions on its exterior. These convolutions serve as cavities where tubes filled with Freon, a coolant, circulate to prevent the CPU from overheating due to information overload.

Embedded within the walls are countless micro processors ranging from 4 to 100 micrometers in width. They appear as dark-green, rectangular chips coated with golden lines that spark with a bright blue light whenever they are active. Placed with negligible distance between each other, these processors analyze, store, and recall any given data from the sensors of the human body. The said data are initially received as stimuli from the physiological environment outside of the human anatomy. They are then transmitted via bronze-coated nerve wires as electric currents and are finally received by the processors.

Connected to these microprocessors are transparent tubes that burn with a light green glow. The liquid emenating the said glow are types of hormones: oxytocin, progesterone, dopamine, just to name a few. These hormones are infused into the processors affecting the input and output of data. In the visual sensors, for example, the hormones are responsible for dilating or reducing the lens of the cornea to see things with an ample, excessive, or inadequate amount of light.

The human mind has a preprogrammed mode that allows itself to define the stimuli it has received using language. Though it is preprogrammed, it is a mode that needs the verification of the user to execute it or otherwise. The program is very basic and needs to be constantly updated to prevent any future possible errors. Updating it would be as simple as running the program and installing new softwares [information] gathered from other human units.

“digital.eyes.ed” is a collection of outputs using this mode. The information gathered come from Asthenia Corporation’s experimental unit Serial Number 65886, codenamed SAIKOW_08. It features the unit’s thoughts on October 29, 2056.

The whole day is an experience in itself, a massive stimuli that SAIKOW_08 has incepted. Yet, the final output comes out “modulated.” As smaller events take up the large events and so on, so do each small definition of each event sum up to the definition of the whole event. Indeed, each event can stand on its own, moreover these events, when fused together make up a well-defined structure.

Each module has been coded directly from spontaneous events. While being coded, SAIKOW_08’s CPU merely relays the the stimuli from sensors, to processors, to the output device [writing hand].

Most of the time, if not often, the unit [SAIKOW_08] tends to increment unnecessary words and/or phrases. This is a normal error in the program, an instance wherein the CPU temporarily disconnects from the sensory transmitter and runs on its own definition of the physiological plane. This error, if no course of action is taken to correct it, will lead to a disfunction on the processors themselves. As the CPU disconnects from the sensors, it leaves the processors to process with only the hormones to run them. If this happens, the processors will weaken and there’s a chances of the virus, aptly called “purple patch,” to spread and corrupt the system will increase.

With this in problem sighted, an earlier unit - labelled HORACE - designed an executable application that intercepts the source of the problem and attmpts to reconnect the CPU to the sensors. This application is called “Revisioning.” It is a very useful software that SAIKOW_08 has downloaded from http://www.CL121.bengan.com/downloads/. It works as a looping program where the unit states the number of times it revises the work. Within the first loop, the application checks the typographical and grammatical errors of the output. This could go on until the unit decides to end it and starts the second loop phases that check the entire work for “purple patches” and oter syntax errors.

The outputs in this collection have gone through the “Revisioning” application many times. Some have been checked by other units, each one having a different version of that said HORACIAN software. Hence, they have been approved and are appropriate to be printed.

With each output, the unit SAIKOW_08 upgrades itself, having obtained new softwares such as:
- Sensory v0.23 - an upgrade that sharpens the imagery of each work
- Labor Limae - upgrades “Revisioning” to Obsessive Compulsive levels
- Conceptual - moderates the release of hormones

In the end of it all, it is safe to conclude that this is a good example of Asthenia Corporation’s greatest acheivment, the human mind. And “digital.eyes.ed” is a clear example on looking at this world, this three dimensional plane, through digital eyes. And with this in mind, I leave you with an advisory: Due to the graphic nature of this literary work, reader discretion is advised.

Saikow-Asthenia Carrion
President, Asthenia Corporations

*a static hum lasts for five seconds followed by a sudden tick and two seconds of feedback*

Feed disconnected…

Module III.

[External Visual Feed]

/*The unit uses its hydraulic joints to raise itself from its bed and an internal stimuli disrupts its CPU. Initially, the disruption is minimal. The unit turns its personal computer ON and waits for it to load. Suddenly, a problem occurs. The telecommunications tower cuts the transmission between SAIKOW_08 and enables transmission with Camera_01, hidden in the unit’s garbage bin.*/

Encountered an internal error: the CPU is low on dopamine…

Losing contact with SAIKOW_08…

*the screen is distorted by lines and a screeching comes out of the speakers for five minutes*

Disconnected…

Enabling Camera_01…

Receiving external visual feed…

*darkness blurs from the scene and this image is taking form*

He was just squeezing the last drop of his come out of his limp penis. The pearly bead flowed out of the hole, and dripped on the side of the head. He wiped it off with the dry part of the tissue paper, used to catch most of his ejaculation. He folded the tissue papers in the neatest manner, as any other obsessive compulsive would. He set the papers aside, stood up, and paused the hentai flick he used to fuel his desire. He put on his underwear and returned the container of petroleum jelly in its secret hiding place, beneath t-shirts and other garments. He picked up the folded tissues and approached the garbage bin.

The first thing he saw inside the garbage bin were empty wrappers of Snow Bear and other brands of candies; and below them, empty Marlboro 20’s packs. Ever since that night with her in the town square, his candy consumption increased. He found no other form of addiction to drown his need to feel something caress his throat. But, powerful menthol candies are poor substitues for the sticks that remain untouched in that last pack he left in the bench. He needed something more to occupy his mind and empty time. Hence, he turned to masturbation. Self-abuse to uphold a promise.

He lifted the side of the large, brown envelope in the corner of the bin. It revealed a mound of used tissue papers with yellow marks on their sides. He placed the recently folded tissue beside them. And just as he returned the envelope to its proper position, he saw pencil shavings at the bottom of the bin, beneath the sperm cemetery.

He couldn’t quite remember exactly when he last used a pencil. But, he could still remember last thing he drew with it, her eyes. It was the night before he gave his first letter to her. He had been deeply infatuated for months and that night, he decided that he wanted to be recognized by her. This memory made him smile for a moment.

He let go of the tip of the brown envelope. It sprung back to its original placement, covering the used tissues and revealing plastic wrappers of all sorts. There was one for a surf wax, or “sex wax” as surfers would call it, covered by those of guitar strings. He missed going to the beach and surfing. He couldn’t quite find the time for it, having to learn playing the guitar, and all.

He wanted to be better at playing the guitar. It wasn’t like him before. Well, before he found out that she liked guitar players. Ever since then, his skim and surf boards have been laying at one corner of is room, thirsting for salt water.

Between the plastic wrappers and the Marlboro packs were scattered Johnson’s buds, nail clippings and old sheets of paper dating back to the last semester. Most of the papers were marked with red ink, having numbers less than one-half. Most days of his last sem was spent on seeing the girl and neglecting his studies. He’s been kicked out of school ever since.

Somewhere in those piles of trash are an assortment of sando bags from SM with recipts bearing product names: Ferrero Rocher, Bear Hugs, some flowershop, Unisilver, and KFC.

And somewhere in those piles of trash is a crumpled paper with words that can’t be deciphered because some letters were washed away by some liquid. The paper itself was in a bad shape, having been crumpled and straightened out for so many times. One word that can be hardly read is the one thing he never dared reading: Good-bye.

Module VI.

[Internal Analysis]

/*SAIKOW_08 finalizes its automated hygiene procedure, steps out of the washroom wearing only a fabric to cover its reproductive organ. It proceeds to the lavatory to finish up with an oral cleansing. After doing so, it gets dressed, walks out of its shelter. It gets the chance to board a Public Utility Vehicle, it situates itself near the PUV’s exit, and it notices an old woman sitting on the opposite row of seats.*/

Hacking into SAIKOW_08’s mainframe…

Primary Master. Defined. Primary Slave. Defined…

Secondary Master. None. Secondary Slave. None…

Access complete.

CPU opened…

Retrieving information…

Begin internal analysis…

She sits at the other side of the jeepney, her silver hair pulled back and tied together by a black garter, the type that is sold in sidewalks along with cigarettes, candies, and cheap accessories. She has nothing on her ears except an earring of rashes embedded with tiny pus-filled granules. Her forehead is a vast expanse of light brown skin with off-color spots and little moles near the scalp. Her eyebrows have all fallen off. Her eyes - sunken, tired, and milky - are barely visible beneath her discolored eyelids. There are lines from the edge of those eyes to her temples. Her nose and her cheeks are losing their grip on the skin that covers them. Her lips form a thin, dark line atop a steep chin.

As I am staring at her face, I can’t help but remember my own grandmother. Nanang, as I used to call her, was the first grandmother I ever knew. She stayed in our house long before I was even born, she often told us that she likes staying with us because she felt at home wit us. My mother would always tell me that Nanang was a very spoiled girl. And, the reason for this, in mom’s view, was because Nanang was the youngest in her family and Tatang, my grandfather, treated her like a princess. But, I never noticed that side of nanang when I was with her. To me, she had always been this caring, loving, self-less person. The complete opposite of what mom tells me. If what mom says is true, I wonder if Nanang ever rode a jeepney. Would she look like this old woman I’m seeng now?

She stares out into a kaleidoscope of industrial titans: twisted iron skeletons, concrete monoliths, glass pinnacles. The new-age sun froms a thin line from her right temple down to her chin. Her eyes glimmer amid the thick clouds of smog and debris.

I have to say, this is no place for an old woman. It’s not because she was born in a time when the world was far different from what it is now - Well, partly, maybe - but, it’s because this place is too harsh for her. She’s old and weak and the world is breathing with fumes while the sun has been very harsh since the past decade. Indeed, this is a hellish environment specially for someone so fragile as her. What is she doing here, anyway?

She is wearing a red dress with torn sleeves and irregular prints - some by ketchup, some by chocolate, some by mud. Just below her sagging breasts was an ethnic fabric with red, blue, white, and green prints.

From the torn edges of her dress come out her arms. They are like bamboo sticks covered with a brown plastic. Her left arm stretches skyward, grabbing the railing above. On her left wrist dangles a white bracelet made of ratan rope. Her left hand has protruding green wires. And, on her left ring finger is a dull yellow ring. Her right arm was kept in the shadows but her right hand held a yellow plastic bag.

I wonder where her family is. Does she even have a family, for that matter? If so, what kind of family would let an old woman like her commute and even do groceries? I admit, I can take the entire populace’s desire to destroy the world day by day, but I have to say that they’ve gone too far if they begin to abuse people like this woman. Its people like them that once worked, suffered even, for us. Its people like them who took care of us when we were young and weak. Now, we repay them by letting them do chores? Now, at their given state? When THEY have become weak? I focus on her plastic bag imagining what kind of person would do this.

Inside her plastic bag is a box of powdered milk, cans of corned beef, probably a kilo of rice, two packs of potato chips: An inventory fit for a child?

She strikes the railing with her coins, the jeepney slows down to a full stop, she stretches her arm, hands clenching her fare. Five gruelling seconds pass, not one single person bothers to take her fare. Finally, a young man decides to hand it to the driver for her. She smiles at the man, gets off, and the driver immediately starts the jeepney without checking if the old woman is already on solid ground - I’m thankful she already is.

How could people be so cold? She is a woman. She is a mother. Does time take that reality from women? I don’t think so.

I sit inside this jeepney, staring out into a kaleidoscope of industrial titans: twisted iron skeletons, concrete monoliths, glass pinnacles. The new-age sun froms a thin line from my left temple down to my chin. My eyes glimmer amid the thick clouds of smog and debris. I imagine the old woman arriving home and a child welcoming her.

Module VII.

[Viewing Allocated Memory]

/*The sight of the old woman triggers a rush of Ghrelin into the CPU. Flashbacks play in his visual sensor, scene by scene dating back to a period when it spent most of its time with its maternal unit. It’s an involuntary process. We will try to open the allocated memories of SAIKOW_08.*/

Proceeding to hard-drive…

A problem has occured: hormone “ghrelin” overriding system…

Rerouting…

Rerouting complete…

Accessed into hard-drive…

Scanning addresses…

Viewing allocated memory…

Life is sweeter when you’re closer to the things you need. This is one realization that I, well, realized while I was sitting inside a jeepney one day.

There was this old woman, probably in her late fifties, carrying a bag of groceries. Inside her bag, [yes, i saw the things inside her bag, it was one of those translucent grocery bags...] I found a box of powdered milk, cans of corned beef, probably a kilo of rice, and two packs of potato chips.

Being the curious person that I am, I imagined what kind of family this old woman was coming home to. And I imagined the typical “hirap sa buhay” family with a minimum number of three children and a budget that only includes food for the whole day. And it’s not just a normal serving of food, it’s the SUPER-ECONO serving of food. It wasn’t really that hard to imagine. Well, in my case, since I came from that type of living.

Then, I thought of my living now-a-days - financially stable and, basically, better than, from my point of view, the way we lived before. Honestly, I have nothing against the way I’m living now. I like it, in fact. It’s not really heaven, but, thankfully, it’s also not hell. We get by and sometimes we would have extra money to get luxuries of life. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against the luxuries in life, I admit, they make me happy. But, why is it that there are some memories, that date back long before we were financially stable, that make me happier inside?

Take this one memory for instance: I remember the days when I was still young and I always went with my mother to the grocery section of JS Gaisano. My father used to work almost everyday those days and he would always entrust mom to me. [like I could really protect her? I was, like, eight years old, SHE would be the one protecting me] I would be the one pushing the cart, getting the items [if i could reach them...] she needed, and doing a bunch of other things. I guess you could say that I was ONCE a pretty good boy. Whenever I remember myself being that little boy, I’d feel this warm feeling inside. Like I actually DID something with my life. And that makes me feel contented.

Then, there’s this memory that I look back at whenever my family and I decide to celebrate over some occasion: The times when we were still staying in Cotabato City. I could remember that one time when I won [I DID win, well, if my memory serves me right...] a speech contest and my parents decided to celebrate in one fast food joint. It wasnt that big a place, it wasnt even that swell a place, it was like a modern day karinderya. There, we used to order spaghetti and everyone would be in their festive mood. Me, my parents, and my two sisters. Looking back, I could say that that was real celebtration. We celebrated over the event and not over the things we had at that given time.

Oh, and why would i forget the times when mom and I used to wait for dad to finish work? Yes, those times when mom and I would just sit in Rizal park and spend the day looking at people; watching them as they passed by; and whenever we got hungry, we would just buy a couple of hotcakes and juices from sidewalk vendors. We would eat and drink beneath the acacia trees and just wait until dad came out. Those days, I never felt the slightest hint of impatience. It was like i was treasuring every moment i had.

And the one memory that really makes me smile when i think about it, the “next time…” moments. I ask you, can you imagine a child wanting a toy? Well, of course, every normal child has a desire towards some kind of toy. [not sexually, you pervert] Question is, could you imagine a child keeping his/her cool if his/her parents told him/her “next time na lang, anak…”? Hard? Nah, not really. That was what my parents always told me, though not all the time. and im quite shocked that i didnt throw that much tantrums [cant really say that i NEVER threw tantrums, i WAS a child...] i must have been a REALLY good child, then.

My point is, the memories that make me happy are those when i didnt have that much luxuries in life. Sad thing is, i cant imagine myself being like that anymore. i might have been spoiled or someting, i dont know. But, im not saying that having luxuries is bad, no. Maybe thats why i treasure those moments a lot, its because those times, i still knew what mattered.

I dunno, maybe its because i was too yung to realize that we were in deep financial problems. i dont know. But i can safely say that the old saying - the things you own WILL own you - is quite true, well, if you let them.

So, before you get spoiled, and if you already are, bear in mind that life is not necessarily sweeter when you’re far from the things you want; rather life is sweeter when you’re closer to the things you need.

Module VIII.

[reconnecting to out-dated wares]

/*15 minutes past the designated meeting time, SAIKOW_08 reaches its drop-off point, the NCCC supermarket. Directly after getting off the transport, with split-second reflex, it looks at incoming vehicles, calculates their speed and distance, and runs across to the other side of the road. Its leg joints hissing as it rapidly navigates across crowds of other units, eyes targeted on the meeting place. When it reaches the doors of the rendezvous point, it pauses, scans the facility and concludes that who it’s meeting hasn’t arrived yet. It looks for a seat and waits for half an hour.*/

Verifying time…

Verified, 14:57:34…

Scanning in progress…

Scanning complete…

Target not found…

Verifying time…

Verified, 14:57:41…

Scanning in progress…

Target found…

Reconnecting to out-dated wares…

She got inside the restaurant, paused about three steps away from the entrance, raised her heels and chin, and searched for me inside the establishment. Her hair that was, as always, parted at the middle, flowed down, covered her ears and reached about two inches below her shoulder. Upon her hair was a white headband that was more of an accessory rather than something used to keep her hair in place. She wore a small, navy blue, Baby Guess t-shirt on, it’s brand printed on the chest for the whole world to see. Just above her left fist was a bracelet made of seven marble-sized beads, each bearing the milky shades of the rainbow. And, on her right hand, was her Ericson cell phone, her right thumb pressing its keypad as if it had eyes of its own, and the sling of her pink Heartstrings bag that dangled as her head moved left to right. She wore faded pants that stretched down to her blue Chucks, laces peeking out to the world. Funny, she had those shoes ever since they became big here in Davao.

Her strained eyes eased, her right thumb stopped moving, and her lips broke into a smile when our eyes met. She tilted her head to the left, raised her left hand and waved at me. Her heels kissed the floor and began racing against each other towards my table. I stood up when she was about three meters away. I greeted her and she welcomed me with a loose embrace. Her toes must have been accustomed to supporting her whole weight. She let go and walked to her side of the table, sat down, placed her bag beside her and her cellphone near the salt, pepper, and toothpick containers.

“Nakapag-order ka na ba?”

Her tagalog accent came as a surprise to me. She has only spent about two semesters in La Salle and she has already adopted that tone.

“Ah, wala pa, eh. Sandali lang, ha? Excuse me, kuya, o-order na mi.”

The waiter came, gave us the menus, and took our orders. I asked her to order first. After a bit of hesitation on her side, and a lot of persuasion on mine, she finally looked at the waiter, smiled at him, and gave him her orders. Her voice was still as soft as that which she left in my memories. And as I watched them converse, I couldn’t help but notice how she draws the waiter closer to her. The tone and the pitch of her voice, the choice of words, the aura, all worked together to form a calm flame for wandering flies. The guy had chinky eyes and a light complexion; her type, no wonder. The fact that the guy was practically old enough to be her father didn’t seem to bother her. Why would it? She had admirers in his age bracket ever since she discovered MIRC.

She became a web-monkey since then. Blogging every now and then, chatting, meeting new people, making personal websites, and fixing up her friendster accounts. She had six of them, all of which virtually had the same people as contacts. Because of this, she was often seen in internet cafes. Most of the time, after logging out, she’d proceed to another “eye-ball” session. All of which didn’t have the boys the pictures and words in the monitors promised. Instead of rich, young, handsome, chinito athletes, she often found jologs, wanna-bes, dirty old men, addicts, me.

The conversation between her and the waiter grew abnormally long for a topic such as chicken gravy. She tucked her hair behind her ears. I was surprised to see that she didn’t have earings on. Of all the accessories, those were the ones she couldn’t be seen without. She had all sorts of designs of them: suns, beads, golden hearts, flowers, feathers; all dangling. Once, I even thought of giving her a nice pair made of shells, but for some reasons, I never got the chance to.

When the waiter walked away after getting my orders, I looked at her eyes and smiled. She smiled back, her contact lenses were colored green today. I started the conversation with the two things I knew she liked as topics: movies and the latest arcade games. It’s good to know that not everything is the same as her taste in earrings. She was so engrossed in talking about them that she never noticed that I barely knew anything about them. She knew a lot about those things, and it came as no surprise. She’s a smart girl, a consistent honor student in her whole high school life. In a nutshell, I could say everyone in her high school knew her because of her brains. Yes, she was a popular girl, being the president of their student council proves it.

*beep* *beep*

She received an SMS. As she read the message, her lips twisted to the right side of her face. I knew that face.

“Papa mo?” I asked just as she placed her phone in her bag.

“Oo. Hinahanap nanaman ako ng daddy-dear ko.”

“Oh? Baby girl ka talaga,” I smiled an awkward smile after saying those words. And from her eyes, I sensed that, beneath her smile, she was affected with my choice of words.

Trying to push the air of uneasiness aside, I asked if I could borrow her phone. She handed me her bag and told me to look for it. I opened it and saw a bottle of Johnson’s baby powder, a container of Body Shop lipgloss, a box of Dunhill cigarettes, her phone. I didn’t bother looking at anything else when I saw the phone. The box of cigarettes, I felt, was the last surprise I could take for that day.

“So, moving on, ano nga nangyari sa The Notebook?” I asked as I took her phone out.

She started speaking again. Her words just entered my left ear and found their way out of my right. I was busy looking at her pictures in her phone. She had lots of pictures of herself, more than anyone would keep of themselves. As she spoke, I kept on scanning through her pictures. I missed her, and I couldn’t tell if the feeling was mutual. After a few images, I saw one of her with another guy. Funny thing is, she never took pictures of us when we were together, but she has loads with him. I asked her if I could take a picture of her, she agreed. Once again, like when she waved at me earlier, she tilted her head to the right and smiled.

*click*

With that sound, that one moment was trapped in her phone.

She looked at her right and shot back at me with widened eyes. Whispering, she asked for the container of lipgloss inside her bag. I gave it to her, she swiped it off my hand, opened it, applied a dab onto her lips, closed the lid, and threw it back at me. She smiled, the waiter came with our orders and slipped her a piece of paper.

Module X.

[system malfunction]

/*The unit arrives at its shelter and sits outside, beneath the stars. The joints are low on lubricant, the respiratory system is doubling it’s piston pumps, and the circulatory system is releasing Freon onto the battery tubes. The CPU is malfunctioning again. The telecommunications tower cuts the transmission between SAIKOW_08 and enables transmission with Camera_07, hidden in the bushes.*/

Encountered an internal error: the CPU is low on dopamine…

Losing contact with SAIKOW_08…

*the screen is distorted by lines and a screeching comes out of the speakers for five minutes*

Disconnected…

Enabling Camera_07…

Receiving external visual feed…

*darkness blurs from the scene and this image is taking form*

He’s looking for shooting star. He doesn’t really know why, but somehow he feels that he’ll be happy if he sees one. He finds it rare for him to spot one. If he does, it brings back memories, both bitter and sweet.

He remembers an incident in his life, he was lying on the soccer field, gazing up into an eternal sky. There, he saw his first shooting star. Remembering an old nursery rhyme, he made a wish. He wished for a perfect girl. Someone who was smart, caring, understanding, and fun to be with. Someone with beautiful eyes, milky white skin, jet-black hair, sweet lips, soft voice, and an alluring smile.

He remembers how his wish came true. He met the girl he wished for. And they got along fine. It really didn’t take long before he realized that he loved her. Question is, did she return te favor?

He remembers that one night when he saw the girl with another man. The man was about ten years older than him, eleven years older than her. He saw them outside the girl’s house. The man held both of her hands. He could see from the man’s posture that he was an athletic person, probably a swimmer with those broad shoulders. From the man’s clothes, he could only draw out one conclusion, that the man is a neat person: a well-ironed, maroon, long-sleeved polo; a pair of crisp, black, slacks; black leather shoes.

He remembers how he couldn’t quite figure out the facial features from where he stood. But, her face, he could clearly see. Her eyes had the same sparkle when they had our first date, the sparkle that was slowly blurred by the minutes that passed by between them. And her smile, she never smiled that way with him before. The man brushed off the tresses that fell upon her eyes, then he caressed her cheeks, then kissed her. The boy dropped the pair of sea-shell earrings he held, each shard sparkled with every dew that trickled from his eyes.

Images of the last time they were together flash before his eyes. If he had known that that was the last time he’d hold her, he would have held her closer, until their pulses became one. If he had known that that was the last time he’d kiss her, he would have cut his tongue off, just to preserve the taste of her lips. If he had known that that was the last time he’d see her smile for him, he would have killed himself just to freeze her face in his eyes. If only he had known…

He remembers how he walked away, facing the sky, where a star fell. He didn’t wish for anything, He knew one of them saw it. It’s theirs, he thaought. He’s just thankful because his first wish came true.

He has seen about seven shooting stars, by now. He realized that there are countless shooting stars falling every night. He just had to open his eyes and look for them. But, he would be a hypocrite if he told her that the first one he saw means nothing. The first star will always be remembered. But, it will never be seen again.

Perhaps some things are a lot like shooting stars, he thought, they look better just passing through.

the freezing

by the window, there sits a rose, with a rich red color you’d swear it bleeds. outside, raindrops are slowly falling from the sky; as a matter of fact, you could count them one by one if you wanted to. everything was a haze on the outside world. a soft mist embracing everything: the wilting trees, the damp road that could stretch on forever. clouds are looming over, the street lights burn into an irritating shade of yellow. i swear, the cold rules over this day. here i am, inside the house, but the north wind could still bring me a slight chill. the house is too damn dark, even for me. the only source of light is the window, with all the droplets of rain and that stupid rose. i swear, the rose is bleeding; with the cold slowly entering the house, dew drops started to appear on its petals.

god, the day is too damn slow. anyway, back to what i was doing, was it this green wire? i was trying to figure out what was wrong with me. i wasn’t bleeding and all, but i had this fucking ache on my chest. i don’t understand it at all. i quit smoking years ago - not to my liking, but hey. there was something terribly wrong, my head was spinning around and my palms are all fucking sweaty. my stomach feels as though it was empty. i want to fucking vomit. yes, there is something wrong. so, was it this green wire again? i started to cut it. to my surprise, rose petals started gushing out. whoa, its warm and all…

by the window, there sits a rose, with a rich red color you’d swear it bleeds.

the asymptote

tuti, the magic poopoo, was walking between te galaxies. but then, tuti spotted a thin line directly infront. being a curious little magic poopoo, tuti decided to go near it. it took tuti 300 millenia to finally touch the line. but the line grew. it grew into one collosal wall. when tuti stands three meters away from the wall and looks up, tuti sees only two halves: one of the black universe, and one of the white wall. same goes when tuti looks at the right, the left, even below. but, tuti’s curiosity could not be easily satisfied. tuti wanted to taste the wall. and so, tuti stretched the magic poopoo tongue out. but the tongue couldnt reach the wall. tuti took a step forward, took out the magic poopoo tongue, but it still didnt reach. frustrated, tuti wanted to ram the wall. and so, tuti did as he pleased. but tuti couldnt seem to reach it. tuti kept on running and running towards the wall, but the wall seemed to move further away with each step. this went on for aeons. the wall was always 3 meters away. it was always half black and half white to tuti’s left, right, up, and down. tired, tuti sat down and when tuti was about to look down for the rest of eternity, tuti saw a small scribble at one white brick…

“edge of the universe… -God”

the malignant

why settle for just a single cut from my wrist to the back of my elbow?

im not emo, im metal…

i wont hurt myself, youve done that too many times to be considered often. i wont cry for this, youve made me shed too many tears for those i left, lost, gave away for you. i wont think about staying with you forever after this night, ive been thinking that youll only end my belief in the existence of “eternity”.

tell you what, how bout i come to your place, lets say, about a quarter to midnight. just when you check all your windows and doors. locked. secure. but, you wont notice me inside your house. ill be waiting inside the closet, where you keep your clothes - cotton, silk, leather. and when you open the door in front of me, ill see you fresh from your midnight wash, steaming and perhaps sweating? then, youll probably open your mouth to let out a scream. oh, no, you wont. theres a reason why ill be bringing used socks. ill clump them together, tightly, about the size of your mouth when you say “oh” just before taking his penis inside it. that should keep you quiet. well, not exactly. just enough so that only i could hear your sweet groans. knives? blades? hell, no. i couldnt ride a damn bus if i had them. hmmm, metal string? oh, yes. number 3 string for the guitar. yes, i, too, play the guitar, like him, but i play it far differently. he plays it to woo you, to sweep you off your feet. i play it so the skin just above my right nails peel off. it gets messy, specially when i peel the skin off, one time, i swear, i saw the bone. but, enough digression! that string would be a lot of help for me. id use it to tie you to bed. you naughty, naughty girl. it wouldnt be him that you’d be tying down, and you wont feel pleasure out of this. well, if you are masochistic, id say you would. you REALLY would. i’d tie you up so tight that one single move would slice open your skin. dont think about cutting your hand free, the strings cut, but come on, they cant possibly cut bone, can they? no, i thought so, i tried it once, it didnt work. god, i get so carried away most of the time. i’d save one special string for you, dear… the last string. string 0. the thinnest string, the sharpest one. id use this to puncture a little hole just above your stomach, slide it inside, but not too much, just enough to touch your intestines. then id slide it downwards until it makes another hole below your navel. isnt this nice? its a big pierce, if you ask me… and then, id pull both ends up. by laws of physics - if i applied the right amount of anger, that is - it would create a clean incision, exposing your insides… very nice, i can imagine it now… pink, violet, blue, red, black… oh, were all so colorful inside. i just love color, dont you? i love it so much, i want to share what id see to you. id turn my index finger into a hook and id anchor it into one convolution, then id pull it hard. from this little piece of you, id pull and pull and pull until nothing is left in your belly, it would be fun if youre still breathing when i yank your stomach off. by then, id still see your heart beating. for love, was it? what you wrote on his notebook? really, now? i dont like that idea, its so passe that kind of language makes me want to puke. i dont like the feeling of wanting to puke, so ill end it by then. my hand would penetrate your chest through the hole on your torso, ill search for that beating piece of shit, grab it. ill look you in the eyes, smile as i softly squeeze your heart til he ceases to be the reason.

when will i do this? i dont know, perhaps after ive seen you with my bestfriend, again. naked in his room.

he’s mine, whore. i wont let you taint my dreams with him.

im not emo, im metal…

the loyal

He placed himself inside you - long and hard; like a hot burning coal inside your mouth. Your throat is like a dark, wet subterranean tunnel for a train moving back and forth, back and forth. The friction is made negligible by your saliva and his premature ejaculation - sweet like honey; sour like your childhood days. The scent of his sweat merged with the fumes of this three by four meter room where cleaning utilities are kept, within the reaches of shadows. His moans, nearly inaudible against the seamless pumping of his manhood slipping between your lips. “Maynard…” your name echoes the scene, his voice - primal, natural. Your fingers play with his body, caressing his stomach, often leading to his nipples, pinching them often. He comes, hot semen fills your mouth as he screams your name again, “Maynard!” Tears fill your eyes, and that one moment nearly lasted a lifetime. The steady stream of come flowing out of the corners of your lips. And as the last drop of it comes out, you ask him,

“How’s mom, dad?”

the silence

The sky above resembles a canvas of indigos swirling in indefinite strokes; a hint of crimson pastels bleed from the vast horizon at the west. There are gray, heavy clouds just above the burning mountains that stand guard at the east of this little town. The lawn is supposed to be green, but the setting sun has washed most of its greenery off and colored the whole scene with shades of orange. Each beam from the sun seems to bear weight; as each ray caresses my skin, the warmth seems to press the shadows away. There are four trees surrounding me, one has a swing that no one has ever used, and perhaps no one ever will. The leaves rustle with each gush of wind, sending chills down the small of my neck. The air is heavy with the scent of burning leaves. The shadows of the white picket fence grow longer with every passing minute. Soon, they’ll cover the small spot of soil between the empty clay pots and the pile of dead leaves. I place the cornflower above the mound, I stand up and walk along the flagstones that lead up to a white door.