I was supposed to type something about my experience of the final show - and the whole production process - of Tilamsik ng Dugo, but I somehoe couldn't find the proper cohesion needed.

Instead, I remembered the last entry in my journal, seven pages in all. My eulogy to something once held dear, now relegated to a faint echo. Burned what needed to be burned, threw what needed to be thrown. I could feel the rope gradually unravel - there were a few defiant strands. I resolved to let them remain; memory is about to have a verbal tussle with that which is about to come. I settle to watch and behold my handiwork, and I decided that it was good.