It was night and on a jeepney from a writing workshop when the faux Chinese commented on the volume of my written work (he was poking at my attempts to publish at least two things every semester). He was unaware of my model - let us call him Diderot out of narcissism - against whose books my pages weigh no more than dead insects. I knew he was looking at his own achievements (as all faux Chinese are wont to do), maybe savoring the brilliance of all his unwritten concepts and scenes. Out loud, he said that we LB writers must have so much time in Laguna.
All I get from the highway store is discipline and buko pie, I said, annotating his pedestrian thoughts.