August 25, 2015
Yesterday in QC I was sat on a garden rooftop focused on the 4:30 p.m. sky. There had been heavy rains in the morning, and that afternoon dark clouds were rolling past, as if intent to carry bad news somewhere. It felt like a Baguio afternoon in that I half-expected fog to roll down at any moment. Iím rereading The Year of Fog, a beautiful and haunting story on memory and time, set in San Francisco. I first read this in San Francisco Street, in a small apartment housed in a dilapidated white building. Good times.