As of this writing, I have a mere 20 day lead-time on the crashing wave of entropy, that bleeding edge of NOW that defines all that is, just before smashing it into a permanent state of was. Time doesn't flow like a river, mister Parsons: it slams like a blast-front, destroying everything in its path, even as it moves, shakes, gives life, and grants continuity.
I can see the NOW, bearing down on me, and with a turn of my head I see that I ride the NOW, and am bearing down on one possible future, like a surfer slicing toward a forboding patch of dark water ahead of the ridden crest. Indeed, it is the reef of August 2nd, and I must force myself to reshape it as a transitory, insubstantial thing. It must be a MOVING reef... a school of fish, perhaps? A mere ripple caused by a fleeting breeze?... something that the wave of the NOW must never be allowed to reach, lest the waters of doom crush the fragile thought, and I drown in my own self-indulgent pity.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. I've got strips drawn through August 2nd. I ought to be able to add a week or so to that before I leave for the Comic-Con on the 18th, but even that's not a lot of head-room.
Man, where did my 32-day buffer go? I've lost twelve whole days! (at one point I'd lost two whole WEEKS, but I found part of one of them). I suspect that those twelve days were given as gifts at the family reunion flu-fest I had. Kind of like "The Twelve Days of Christmas," only sung into a toilet bowl to the tune of "Ralph the Chuck Hurl Barf."