The lovely doorkeeper of Precint 43A is an augur.
By sucking at the faint electoral stain on my forefinger, she foresaw the fall of three provincial dynasties, the triumph of my favorite party-list representation, and he-who-is-expected-to-lose snatching the second congressional district.
She did not mind that I mistakenly shaded an aging boxer as the 11th senator because he lost anyway.
I called her Mrs. Cho, guardian of the peloton and boarding house owner who had Ladies Dorm 7 burned down because the market vendor displayed juvenile hypomastia that stretched from Kalzadah to Sisig Point before the first rain of May fell.
Phnom Penh was marked in a One Program Report after a sedate Monday meeting.
Kuala Lumpur is being chased like a condensed communique and will be caught soon, hopefully.
Jakarta is on a 360-degrees breakaway mode.
In the week of annual development plans, the Cambodian blueprint was accepted through a Royal Ploughing Ceremony while that from the Malaysians, Indonesians, and Filipinos were returned for a second round.
It seems that I went beyond expections so I carried on, walking with a funeral cortege and to finally redeem a box of spaghetti that smelled like dinakdakan, crunchy as a day-old crispy pata but without the bittermess of pinapaitan and burnt catfish, fresh llike the litsong paksiw salvaged from a graduation ball...
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