In these foreign parts

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Taal at twilight

There are noises in the background. It’s a blank slate. The floor tiles are woven by the shadows lingering in my dreams.
Sometimes, I hear crying. The sweat trickling down my spine does not understand what is going on. Stars swim in my eyes, and the vision of the doorway grows weary.
“The number you dialed is out of coverage area,” said the phone.
We are a mix of red and blue. I imagine me being time, forever stretched but never as elastic. If you paid enough attention, you would have heard the buzzing. Glass only allows one to see through.
It is the end. My neck has twisted itself in an assortment of directions. The sky is no longer blue; instead, a variety of oranges and purples. The table I now sit on fits only one, and I am shivering.
“Medium or large,” asked the cashier. “Regular.”
Plumbing is unheard of in these parts. The strange thing is clowns no longer smile too. Unsoiled boots could only do so much.
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