Very heavy downpour in Cubao. At its height I went out under an umbrella and entered the cafe to check for leaks. I sat by the entrance doors, waiting for the rain to subside, and stared through the raindrops on the glass panes across the street onto Artery Art Space opposite the cafe. I suddenly felt that I was not in Cubao. I was with Jerwin once again on a rainy night in Singapore, in a vague area between Chinatown and Little India, in the only open cafe, one that serves pig's organ soup.

Such mental teleportations signal to me that I will astral-travel while sleeping later tonight.