We're gonna go swimming

". . . to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race."
- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce


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It is amazing how a room can seem like a home people would dare live in with some curtains, a divider thingie, a tablecloth, Glade and those little pine tree scented paper things. Our room smells lived in and not in the nakabilad na panty kind of way.

Then again, any room with a paper crane and some well-placed Post-it notes is home enough for me.


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Last night, a crash course in pseudo-French:

"Je m'appelle ca va?" Giggle. "My name is How are You." Uncontrollable giggling.

The language of love nga naman. Now. Attends, je t'embrasse le ciel.