As the words embed themselves on the paper, I must confess, I've been meaning to voice my thoughts through ink for quite some time but alas, I remain as lazy as ever. I commence now, with my Procrastinator's Affair -- an affair not-so-sought after, atleast by myself. I fell in love with Passing Time. Oh! How so thrilling it had been! It wasn't long until it moved in with me. Yet, it soon bode me unwell. It became my sole company, and its'. I stayed,relentlessly staring, glaring into the void of Nothingness and somehow, that became our golden age. My former lovers sat, unopened, warmed by the dust that clothed them, on my desk. Reading! Out of question! New authors rise everyday don't they!? And also, one must understand -- what with the coming of the New Age -- that TEXTING is also a literary art, as for a while I thought it to be one too. But now I've realised that I mustn't embrace that spiteful lover but instead must dwell deeper into those pages