All this is making me dream for more writing, but I just couldn't find the time to write. I want a four-day job. I'm craving for some peanut brittle and a good sleep with my girlfriend. At age 40, I might have a serious case of carpal tunnel syndrome. I've been telling myself to stay in this job for five years. When I applied and thought I could earn for a Leica, I initially hoped for two years. There is a trip to Thailand with my girlfriend and my workmates this January. Other than that, my extremist self is wishing for war, to clear out the hullabaloo. I imagine it the way a Physics teacher dares to remove a thin white linen sheet on a table in front of an auditorium, like the ones when I was in college. The teacher should do it as fast as he can. There is a porcelain piggy bank at the center of the table and the audience is watching. War, just like that. Then--and this is just wishful and theoretical thinking, like a what-if cloud which, in a story unlikely to be published, will occupy the entire story--there would be lots of killings, and all of us would be motivated to do something good for the country. I know when I reach the bottom of this I want to be a city planner. I guess everything in my stories is the reflection of my dream to be a city planner. I want the entire Philippines to be a blank slate and Manila will become, sadly, a very organized city. There. I'll wait for the bombing.