it was almost midnight when we sat on one of the park benches beside the elevated buttocks of the granitized jose rizal. two lampposts are dead while another one flickers desperately as the full moon tries its best to compensate for the lack of lighting. at the far end of the park a beggar is sleeping. on the opposite side a group of pre-pubescent jejemons are laughing their hearts out as they assault their lungs with cigarette smoke. on the darkest part of the park, under the century old balete tree, a group of street kids are having the time of their lives sniffing rugby from plastic bags. then from out of nowhere a shout was heard and three drunk men came into view arguing about some trivial things. one of them pushed the other one and the third kept pointing at something. the rugby group, seemingly amused, approached the drunks and made taunting noises. the beggar woke up, irritated. he picked up his belongings and left. the jejemons also exited quietly, without a sinlge jejeje noise being heard from them. i stayed sitting on the bench. close to you, the periphery of my body touches the periphery of yours. and as the rugbies pushed the drunks and as the drunks pushed back the rugbies, i stayed put. why should i leave? i have found my security.