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I. "As eyes arise in the trees, the night is affront to life." II. There is an order amongst black-tar murderers to hold their kill under the muck. A morphology of severed comms, secret detentions, EITs, and turncoats. IIa. Reports In South Cotabato, a fraudulent firefight of unarmed men. In Bukidnon, an ailing elder summarily killed. In Samar, a boat detonated to erase evidence of torture. Grief in Kabangkalan and Silay. IIb. Program At the time of discovery, we’re biding time to stay on. What we know is they linger in the filth, and we will strike with a terror so divine they’ll uncower and surface to face the sun. Absolute terror; annul in divide.

The day's long, and my head's too far gone; I'm stuck in this room with you. Your devil dogs have swallowed the sun; there's nothing but the moon and you. There's a puzzle-shaped dive that bores a hole through desires. Your gut-thought won't just comply with your captives that want you to die! The walls are far too tall for me to escape this, where each path and door leads to a dead end. Craving the embrace of outside's light and bliss, I'm counting down the days. I'm gonna get it! The wait's long, the grantees have come and gone; what's theirs are still withheld by you. Your venom tongue has hollowed out their skulls, spun around by words from you. Landlords and their lap dogs harm, steal and take things, as each trap and toll leads to a dead end. Engraving sentries to mark your death wish, we're counting down your days. We're gonna get it. No salvation, no grief for despots.

A shot gut, dry and bare, still hurts a tempered soul withered. But what a lick of salt is worth to a throat in reverse; one by one, consuming in the incline, gripping on their insides— a mass decline. Who mends the atrophy, receding on the concrete helplessly. How could the weak rebel, how could the starved kill? How should the weak rebel, how should the starved kill? With pestilence and famine and dissented cries of liberty— tell me how would the weak rebel? How would the starved kill? To pigs the worst has yet to come. The boys in blue, the soil's scum; it's you or me six feet deep.

Between you and me, there's always another one. In the next town, another. Next door, another. Tales of thievery but not for rice, rain but not for land. The connected causes of hunger and losses are the goliaths whipping their backs against the sun! A cruel sentence for the forlorn and restless to be skinned and welted, and expect not to look red. Now it's you and me, and there are always more. Our trial awaits along high water and rifles!

Promise it won't stay the same, then we'll go all out. The problems won't stay the same, 'til the fallout. Reach out fellow hands; what you will take away is up to you. Lay it out on me. Cry providence of rain, til we all drown. I promise I won't be the same, alive somehow. Reach out fellow hands; what you will give away is up to you. Lay it out on me. There are eyes on the inside—

A sole, still cloud rested upon the fovea centralis; an immovable date constantly rescheduled, looking it over again. Off a cliff without the cord, a final blade. A viscid anti-cure, in the arms of waves. A derelict home of all locked doors and windows shapes this cirriform. All of this on us, I'll make sure it won't be you.

I. Sgr A* and Our People's War Compressed duration for protracted time; a dented spectrum in the mass of crimson mountains, radiating to false capitols of pillars in concrete. Compressing time towards the event horizon; crushed duration in protracted war. Mere gunfire seek the smallest fraction but decides for the longest; the rule of fascist dictators is long but will die, in flesh and memory, the quickest. Compressing time as with the Odessa Steps; age flattens men but revolution measures death. Egressing life from woeful precedents is a timeless design— revolution resists death! Invoking, "no more staircases that go to the heavens, no more longing for Nostalghia. No candleflame being swept away by wind. No more empires of gold that thwart peace. No more plunderers, imperialists, and despotic kings. No more speculation, only certain triumph. Only certain and just future." We're biding time to stay on. II. The Providence of Rain Everywhere— on your skin, inside your stomach, will be water. As your lips dry, calling out for it, so as the punished faults split. And so a flood covering even the high mountains, like comb splitting hair, the streams rush between the trees. The forest has eyes on the inside, and it will shut. Only the awakened ocean will remain. III. A Communiqué It reaches out to fellow hands; what will you take away is up to you, what you give in return is up to you. All it seeks is total forgiveness for self-hatred. All it wants is clarity inviolate, then it can die. In the end, all we really want is a life worth living. The question remains for us amidst the promise: who are we doing this for? What use is it for? What is definite is it is not for us to answer, and it lies not in the medium. Let's see each other elsewhere: in the farmlands, in the picket lines, in the streets, in encampments. The coming years will be everyone's judge. The situation is excellent.