run ons and [fragments]

Like magic, I will turn into Janus or St. Sylvestre (whichever your heart finds easier to believe in) at the strike of the clichéd 12.

(As I type this, my mind drifts to one hot afternoon at the basement of the Humanities, in ENG107, discussing Nick Joaquin’s The Mass of St. Sylvestre.)

One face looking ahead, another looking back. Like a dicephaly, yes.

I will no longer wait for things to happen; I will dance. 

I have no resolutions, only to be braver. Now, how to be brave? That is the question.