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So you take that old bike again.

It’s another morning, I am pretty sure that the newly-wed couple is out on their front yard, they will greet you “maayong aga” with their coffee and cigarettes. Then you will feel alone, you will wish that soon, someone asks you for marriage or a magnificent short-lived romance. Few turns, kids in their uniforms walk by and their bags bigger than them and so one boy will shout at you “biking again again and again”, you think he is handsome, you think he is going to be a painter. You think he has great influences, he is your little brother, by the way. Then, there are 7am-alcoholics around a bamboo table, there are whisky bottles, two glasses, one filled with water. There is salt and green mango. Their breakfast. So one of them, the one who speaks and his saliva showers, the one who has grey hair and angry cheekbones will greet you “happy birthday” or “you are the loveliest daughter of your Father” or whatever he wants to in the most poetic, drunkest words. You find it amusing and will just wink.


The sky is sad. It looks pissed off. It hums no tune. The clouds are dead. Maybe, God is somewhere but you have no idea.

Everything lives when this woman in fat voice and curlers, opens her door, screams hi to you, shows you brochures of bras, panties, make-up, and male perfume and advises you not to go biking often because it destroys the hymen. You will feel funny because all the while she thinks you’re virgin.

So there are butchers pushing cows to the truck, they smell like pigpens but you admire their hard work. You sometimes wish to be a cow or a goat, eat the same grass and never complain, your tits be squeezed, you stay on the fields and enjoy the chest of the earth with the sun, the trees and the stream. An old man in short shorts jog around, jog to and fro, jog everyday and he does not miss to tell you that your hair looks fabulous and that he wants his grandson to marry you. His grandson who studies as a mariner, who is four years younger than you, who listens to hip hop every second of the day and who speaks with “yo!” all over.

And there is a mother and a son arguing about school and girlfriends. There is a teacher and police officer, their daughter who has porcelain doll eyes. There is a dead cat on the road.

But the woman who plays with her dogs and who loves too much love songs is not out. You worry. Because like you, she dies sometimes.











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