who knows if the moon's

words have become scarce in the wake of indolence. allow me to borrow, then, those of ee cummings in the hopes that tomorrow the world will once again give me a reason to write. enjoy.

who knows if the moon's

who knows if the moon's
a balloon, coming out of a keen city
in the sky--filled with pretty people?
(and if you and i should

get into it,if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we'd go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody's ever visited,where

always
it's
Spring)and everyone's
in love and flowers pick themselves

buhay buhay

I've come to realize that writing in this blog is only appealing when there's something else I should be doing like, for example, studying for an exam. It's ironic really. Now that I have nothing to do, I do nothing.

So here I am, forcing myself to write just so the hinges don't get rusty. There's something there. Something that wants to be unearthed and exposed to the world that is literature but I have yet to find the energy and motivation to dig it up.

Ah. To be young and lazy. 'Tis bliss.