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11:24 | love-making on high street
there is something about commuting, of which the trees of dela rosa cannot lie. is it the smell of human sweat that violates not just the olfactory, but the other senses as well? or is it the dehumanizing feeling of being carried away en masse, like a truck-full of pigs to be butchered in a central slaughter house? blank morning faces painted for a full day of fake graces.
maybe it is the clatter of pairs and pairs of hurried feet, going in and out, in and out, in and out of the coaches to pre-set destinations. or perhaps the figure of the philippine eagle on the magnetic cards. the guards, maybe? or the couple kissing despite not five inches away is another face, another pair of lips. hickeys that a suit and tie cannot hide.
there is more. but i do not know.
there is something about the trees of dela rosa that commuting cannot find.
