One-hour, afternoon nap.

Woke up thinking of Pio and  Joy de Castro, both deceased. I remember visiting their quaint, modern house only once, most probably during the premiere production of my play Biyaheng Timog. They'd inherited a postage-stamp lot and had no choice but to build upward in order to have lots of space. Every square inch was carefully measured to accommodate their furniture. The house had four levels, if I'm not mistaken. Their library was located on the uppermost, where there were three of each book on the shelves. I asked Pio why that was so, and he explained that one book was to keep, the other to lend, and the third a spare.

Though each level of the house was small, there was a small atrium at one end in which they'd placed a potted banyan sapling. Pio also explained that, before they started building, they had to get rid of a fruit tree on the lot. He walked up to the fruit tree and apologized for what they were about to do. "After all," he added, "you never really bore fruit." Uncannily, on the day that they felled the tree, they saw that it had forced itself to bear albeit tiny fruit.