a recurring thought sat on a corner with a broken spirit. Stilled as such, came an inner sound. A sound whose beating and plea the possessor knew haven't been paid heed on for years. A sound lost on avenues too many of world's which, upon return, I felt beyond recognition. Bare.

What day or which date that turned up I remember not, even my unique appearance in the fading crowd would only clutch fugitively. Two congruous encounters however, in a bus ride, in a one of billion ordinary days apart from routine, were way way off. Bound to leave a mark with a wonderful threat and thus far more alarming than A(H1N1) or any other pandem[-onium] to the highest alert, or maybe quite a spasm of hyperbole that when I verged on declaring a state of calamity unto myself, it took on for a beseeming rescue.

That night, the girl wasn't another preacher with a sermon. She talked as if it were her last, tossing heavens around us, I couldn't think of a thing in there that didn't feel her radiance. In the flesh of her words was that sound, rebuking through, both alien and familiar, but rather sweetly. It held still in me. Froze to linger about. Perhaps because the sound was delivered with love, and the message was love. Of that, much I'm certain, remembering the wisdom and the strongest man who ever walked the earth. The promise, for which convictions deepen.

So I gave what's in my heart to give -- even with the right degree of cheerfulness (or I meant not to blame being less cheerful) but her passion was something that overflowed, having the former, selfish principle to drown. It came that I've had nothing else with which to blow my mind away. Not even with a somewhat relative other, than I got moved like this, delightfully mocking.

I could never DO that which I wish so feverishly I could (as before) believing that life by it, holds the beauty of infinity. Because that's how it pays off unimaginably, on speaking of things not of this world or its parallel.

The next morning, while still moderately high with the other night's tale (and reality alike), a beggar stepped in my bus riding home. Abashed got a fraction of skepticism left in me when, as he closed our distance down the aisle I caught the heart of his mumbling becoming more lucid:--'Dati po akong macho dancer. 'Dun po sa...ngayon, humihingi ako ng kahit anong tulong sa kalagayan ko para magamot. Mas mabuti na 'yung nagpapakumbaba, kaysa nagmamataas.' I could have philosophized claiming he's no excuse or beyond compare to such and such a person who makes do living by some hackneyed modus operandi. Suddenly I couldn't, on seeing how acutely blistered the man's arms were. That, besides his sound and the pronounced honesty in it I could attest, was sufficiently moving. For a moment of pure necessity that ought to be, to get stuck by and be soberly... PIERCED, wherefore I may be stopped from all cares to look inside with significant rumination, and hear the sound.

More to the sound's depth is life, I know, which can never go deliberately betrayed once the voice commands to be tuned in. Breathing to blow the wind vane one may use to find his path.