Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars.
— Vladimir Nabokov
The thing about partying for straight three days is this: there is always that 8am meeting that pushes me to decide to just stay awake because of the nightmare of not waking up in time and/or missing the meeting entirely by waking up at noon. So that’s what I did.
In the hour of the wolf, I made the mistake of cleaning out my GMAIL Inbox (it was so in dire need of it) and came across my email exchange thread with a late friend. I sat by our balcony, facing no view but the next building’s fire escape and air con rear boxes, (lest you picture this scene to be more romantic than it actually was) reading our emails. Pressing the down arrow, then the up arrow. Then opening a new tab to Google his name.
Scrolling down a cyber shelf of articles about him and his death. Their deaths. (Murders, actually.) I smoked and read ‘til the sun rose. No startling burst of light from the east, nothing like that. Just the slow fading out of the dark, leaving me in a grey building, in a grey mood, because while the sun did rise, it was, in fact, raining hard. (it turns out, the air con rear boxes disguised the sound of the rain)
There is no getting over murders of friends.
4 July 2012
7am, Pasig City