Deadlines for my contributions for other magazines in publication comes near, like a clock ticking inevitably to tell you that finish or not finished, you have to pass your work, if ever you have one. This is not counting the writing works that I still have to meet for my own magazine.
It seems day are fast passing by without any writing production from my part. Those pieces I finished, I've marked as 'draft', considering that I wrote them all in haste or just to fulfill the publication's quota of written work.
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If I would have my way, I would buy an ice-cold san Migs lights right now, stare at its beauty and cherish gulfing down the universe that it can offer. Can't help it. I know the ground beneath my feet cracked and its maw is slowing pulling me downward in spiral plummet down the abyss of eventual death of somebody cherished for so long and the immediate happeniness of just seeing somebody close to you with something between her ears. Life. Yes, life's intricacies. But every moves she makes is magic, no doubt about it.
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