Dead. Line.

And so it is, with deadlines. They come, they go, and the moment in which to savor a victory is so short, so fleeting. Suddenly it is December, and I am on to new things. How sad those last few hours with my piece, even if this is not truly the end, and suddenly how much more I had to say. How much life mimics art, the experience mimics the life.

In words, I see a world begin to make sense where it didn't use to. In my words, I see secrets I hid from myself. I remember that this is why I loved them in the first place, when I was still writing stories on my father's old computer in the 80's, the kind that only carried a word processor.

There is magic in words.

There is also magic in Christmas lights strung gaudily around bedroom windows. I realize it is not the same kind of magic, but tonight, when my word document is closed indefinitely, I lie in bed and look at those lights, and do you know, that is all the magic I need.