Dream. Believe. Survive.
I just alighted from the jeep before it drove Crossing Ibabaw. Posing a dreadlock because of the countless night shifts, the moment intimated that hailing a taxi was the only move that meant I won't be late. And just my luck: a taxi pulled over with a passenger getting off of it. Then I saw him.
It's a desire for him and the grief that he's beyond reach and the shock of his
instant loss. This strong combination creates a madness booming in your chest.
I was about to enter a taxi when a passenger just stepped out of it. From that
stunning sight moving right in front and pass me by the taxi door, my
lust made it immediately clear that his workouts had paid off with a muscular
back and cultured, fleshy, Spartan arms.
A model--the driver confirmed when we drove Ilalim Crossing en route Ayala
Avenue. If can't have him, I will exceed than him.
Five years from now, by the time my affluence preceeds me, I see myself driving to my hometown. Infront of my urban manor, I park my iridescent, tasteful car on a curb. I alight and take off my shades as I'm followed by my retinue of PA's, a bodyguard, my poodle, my fashion designer slash friend, an interior decorator in tow. And, to afford them all, a bank account with income from my records and photo shoots. By then, I'd be unquestionably entrenched on the local aristocracy.
As my lustry car parks infront of the manor gates, they open up to reveal my beautiful son walking out through the doors to welcome me with his babymaker, a beautiful European girl I never touched. I had named the boy Apollo Imperial, who, with uncultivated ease, will be raised to be the next big thing in the Pop music industry. The only thing he should labor for is to culture his body and maintain his beautiful voice, and, thanks to me, enhance a flexible style that can venture any music genre and still be the best. I'm hell-bent aspiring so that that kind of life won't have to be a prospect but a reality. This ambition abets me to discipline and to circumvent the recursive procrastinations I've been guilty of before. What can I say? I'm up for a challenge.
It's a desire for him and the grief that he's beyond reach and the shock of his
instant loss. This strong combination creates a madness booming in your chest.
I was about to enter a taxi when a passenger just stepped out of it. From that
stunning sight moving right in front and pass me by the taxi door, my
lust made it immediately clear that his workouts had paid off with a muscular
back and cultured, fleshy, Spartan arms.
A model--the driver confirmed when we drove Ilalim Crossing en route Ayala
Avenue. If can't have him, I will exceed than him.
Five years from now, by the time my affluence preceeds me, I see myself driving to my hometown. Infront of my urban manor, I park my iridescent, tasteful car on a curb. I alight and take off my shades as I'm followed by my retinue of PA's, a bodyguard, my poodle, my fashion designer slash friend, an interior decorator in tow. And, to afford them all, a bank account with income from my records and photo shoots. By then, I'd be unquestionably entrenched on the local aristocracy.
As my lustry car parks infront of the manor gates, they open up to reveal my beautiful son walking out through the doors to welcome me with his babymaker, a beautiful European girl I never touched. I had named the boy Apollo Imperial, who, with uncultivated ease, will be raised to be the next big thing in the Pop music industry. The only thing he should labor for is to culture his body and maintain his beautiful voice, and, thanks to me, enhance a flexible style that can venture any music genre and still be the best. I'm hell-bent aspiring so that that kind of life won't have to be a prospect but a reality. This ambition abets me to discipline and to circumvent the recursive procrastinations I've been guilty of before. What can I say? I'm up for a challenge.