One hot afternoon, by a window that opened to a meadow, Marco sat. Hair uncombed, beard unshaved, still wearing his Silliman University shirt, smothered with black ink. He was almost finished writing the last chapter of his latest story when Don Alfonso came in, a glass of brandy in hand.
“Oh, hijo, are you writing in your ridiculous diary again? Wasting your time trying to encapsulate your thoughts? Ha!” Don Alfonso exclaimed while walking around Marco’s room, kicking away soiled clothes strewn on the wooden floor.
“You can’t even clean your own room. What will my amigos and amigas say when they see this? The son of Don Alfonso Aguerre, a wealthy, well-known haciendero, untidy! What? You don’t put your used clothes in the laundry area. You have all day… wait, all year to do so! Yet you spend all your days scribbling nonsense! … Why, you are no different from the pigs found in our farm! You are hopeless, son. Hopeless.”