12:05 MN. The werewolf crossed the street to the burger stand. A young man was there ahead of me. Minutes later, two hookers sauntered by, paused, and measured us before deciding to move on upon noting that they were being strategically ignored.

Visited M.'s cafe. MK and I. are on duty. N. is on leave because he needs to wake up early to go to church in the morning. V. and MN arrived from a jaunt in Malate.

I love M.'s cafe on a Saturday night. Everything is Edward Hopperesque. Across the street, a single, caged, incandescent light bulb glows outside Artery Art Space's studio exterior. On its upper level, fluorescents wash the concrete ledges of its gated balcony. At Victory Motorcycles USA (formerly Ducati Motorcycle Shop), fluorescents also light the big, white foyer with an iron staircase, and more fluorescents are lighted in the interior of the second-story machine shop. The scene is devoid of human beings, and I feel that I am in a 1950s, Ray Bradbury, suburban setting.

Walking back home, I see R. the security guard sitting inside the narrow, main-gate outpost, his face lighted up by the alien-spaceship-dashboard-like glow of his mobile.

12:40 MN. I am back at the work station inside my captain's cabin bedroom again. The granddaughters are asleep in their bedrooms upstairs and S. is asleep in the ground-floor studio lounge.

I write while others dream.