The trip to the National Museum has been most satisfying. As we walked past the blacks and crimson reds of the post-Spanish colonial period to the brighter and more Instagram-friendly modernisms with screaming signs not to touch or stand too close to the artwork, you held my hand tight and ushered me to the staircase leading to the spacious Old Senate Session Hall. And there, with your grip even tighter, you looked at me as if I was the Spolarium you’re allowed to touch whenever.


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