Tumbang Preso

16 May 1997. Every night when I lie to sleep the fetid air assails me. I left the bowl of dust for the sea of garbage. Cellophane is going ...

Southbound am I. There's no other way. Incidentally. *** Chopping heads, making a new tract. My God, how refreshing. My cold blood warms...

Writing or not writing, I am all that I am. And yet there’s this, too: that I’m the best thing that ever happened to me, though not to you, ...