They call it a “lucid interval;” temporary insanity. The best I could have done was to just stay home and read a book, write some more stuff, or catch up on much-needed sleep. Then again, it was too hot to read, to write, or even to sleep. It was just too hot. Like Macbeth said, ’tis a dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain.
A hot Sunday afternoon: 33 degree heat, 33 degrees of boredom. My brain must have sublimated, my good judgment must have evaporated. I suppose there’s nothing more emo than to go out in temperatures at the high 30s just to go somewhere to take pictures, to make up thoughts… and probably get a Quickly.
At three in the afternoon, I was off to SM Mall of Asia. If not for a Quickly, for heaven-knows-what. Like bad photography, mirages, and the disturbed thoughts of a writer with nothing better to do on a hot Sunday afternoon.
