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The taste of summer in October. Crystalline blue, sparse clouds. Through the vastness of the open sky came the sunlight, relentless but wearing in spots, declining but still like March’s own. It bathed the tin roofs enough they appeared cherry-red, while the soft, polluted city breeze streamed through hair, shook some trees, and picked up some skirts to the flirtatious squeals of young ladies. Small tornadoes swirled above and on the heated asphalt, while the tough, urban shrubs looked greener and more amiable under the fine light of October’s morning.

How does one write in daylight? In the evening, at least, the darkness affords privacy, and the soft glow of lampposts lends nostalgia for inspiration. The comfort of warm bed sheet offers some of the necessary seclusions – both body and mind – for thoughts to be formed and written down. But how does one write, in his home, on an incredibly sunny morning accompanied by summer-like winds more apt for a lazy retreat by Manila bay, or in one of the beaches just a few hours’ drive from this city? Unless, there is summer-love, the plumpness of a man’s lips under the warm radiance of the sun, the perspiration-glazed skin, and the lustful scent of bodies scantily clad – writing in brightness, under clear skies, and fierce winds seem so contrived.

But it is October. No men are reasonably naked and naked reasonably.

October seems to have lost its identity. Except for a few hours of thunderstorms, it has been nothing more but blistering, and unfair for the prosaic and poetic carnivores. It has been full of fine weather: excess sun, excess winds. Devoid of any gloominess, nothing is sentimental, nothing is problematic; no weight of emotion, no fresh guilt or shame from complaining against the misery of rain. There is just a view enjoyed with tremendous clarity, and a city busied by holiday traffic picking up, and a world still spinning despite climatic changes.

How do they ever do it in the southern hemisphere?

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