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There are four beds in the room—one on each corner. On top of each is a blue green foam that complements the rusty, silver coat of the iron bed. A wooden study table and a shaky brown chair complete the set-up.

If you turn on the foot-long fluorescent lamp opposite the chair (just be careful with the grounded switch), you would clearly see the bar code sticked on the side of the furnitures. UP Diliman Narra Residence Hall. Thin and thick vertical bars. And a series of numbers under. You are not supposed to erase or peel them off.

Now, open the main fluorescent lamp high above the ceiling (the switch is on the mint green wall behind the knob-less door), so you would see the excited, polliwog-looking, blue sperm cells swimming toward the sphere painted boldly on the tall, four-door cabinet. A magnum opus, right?

Sorry for the dangling cobwebs. Mang Calix has not been here for almost a month. I don't have the courage to wrestle with the bigger-than-usual spiders hiding on the busted electric fan, on half-read photocopied books and readings in yellow folders, on faded Levi's jeans, on soiled undies and stockings and more assorted stuff dumped at the top of the cabinet—hoping against hope that their redeemer would arrive soon.

May I request that you do not take advantage of the lock-less closets, especially the one farthest from the room's entrance? But, you are free to inspect the tables and walls. You are free to scrutinize the pile of books I borrowed from different libraries, the librettos, flyers and posters I stolen from various bulletin boards around the campus. Kuya Jimmy wouldn't mind if you take a look at the lyrics of his favorite disco song and monthly calendar on his side of the wall. You can also smell the soon-to-be-used flavored condoms and yet-to-be-read photocopies on his table. Aljay would be happy if he finds out that you admire his hardbound Webster dictionary and biology books with dried leaves on some pages of it. The hentai CDs are not his. He just borrowed them from the room next to ours.

If you smell something fruity, don't think of fruits. It's just Ate Michelle's towel which he always forgets to hang outside. He seems to have a monthly supply of those pink shampoo and conditioners. The colorful tablets and pills and brassieres and high-heeled shoes are also his.

If you gaze at the screened window, a cemented basketball court stands proudly at the center of this square block dormitory. A variety of ornamental plants and vegetables compete with weeds on the green quadrangle.

Sooner, the court would be filled with the last hurrahs of topless undergraduates; the TV room would again be crowded when Jang Geum's time arrived. At midnight, we would go to the lobby and wait for the magbabalut or the rolling burger stand. Have fun, for tomorrow, we have no choice but to leave this home.