Nothing survives this room. Nothing - books, old pictures, records. Not even sadness, not even sin slowly dripping from tubercular faucets like hot saliva. Air convulsive with the fever of a thousand needlepoints. The long acetylene arm of noon reaches in through the broken window to blot everything out. This is not madness. This is Manila. This is the essence of blindness: not black but the sharpest, most inviolate white. The force that stirs everything - music of dead pipes, burning rooftops, droning water tanks, escaping as steam that renders the city phantasmal. God’s contempt made vapor. All things are the same at noon: white and combustible. Words, we fear for their fight, their utter dryness: little moth wings in fammable air. Words, like white, fever, air, music, god . So we stay. Stay still. Fall silent. Endure, all too knowingly. The virtue of blindness. Negation of dimensions. Cessation of all memory. World outside begs for rain and you are not of flesh anymore. Tiny sparks swirl surround your wordless body. So the soul - or whatever you might call it - finally lifts, as smoke leaves behind, with incalculable grace, things burning, things dissipating, things reborn.
- Insectissimo, Lourd de Veyra