He had a dream,
a threesome at a meagerly furnished studio apartment that smelled of fried catfish and the burnt unlimited samgyupsal from the Thursday Group's consecutive engagements with the impossible Raymond Reddington who must bear with Agent Elizabeth Keen's naivity in every episode until the doctor finally stepped in with a prescription for a night that never was to break the fast in Timog Avenue.
There's a line,
from Room 602 of the B Hotel to Jones Bridge through the world's largest Chinatown welcome arch for two orders of teahouse dimsum that was paid by a teller from the renovated Chinabank building who sincerily chewed on a bag of frozen kikiam from a nearby bakery...
...where another long line crawl through a mezzanine of purple hopia and frozen pork siomai, a table of mami and siopao, burning tofu barbecue, a box of imported cherry and chilled Hut Taho.
It's a parfait for The Dawn,
real milk tea for her though and a full body massage at the Changekeepers Academy of two ageing protest singers and a famous fried chicken that shaved their brother's moustache with songs which pulled Balong to a deep slumber.
There's too much blood at the SIDCOR Sunday Market but a pack each of menudo, igado, lengua estofado and humba were enough to honor each day in the trails of Munoz that raised the curtain for the unexpected and a subsequent feast of salami, olives and pistachio seeds in Bakal 2...
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