This is for a day to come when i will have the appropriate photo of man come back to windowsill where, as a boy, he learned to play guitar. My grandparents' house had such windows that tempt stories into telling, aswangs into peeking, and the occasional bat into flying circles above the dining table.
It is said that the people in town were divided into two; those that could hear the sea waves crashing kilometers away all the way into their homes and those that couldn't. I was one of those that could. Nowadays there is no such distinction. The houses are cold concrete cemented into callouses that keep the likes of prowling burglars and the sound of crashing waves from coming in.
The five a.m. pandesal is smaller. Rustic turns into rust. Once again, the distance we travel in time is farther than any planet or star.
They just don't make windows like they used to.
