I didn't think I was in a morbid mood, but it appears I am. My mind goes round and round trying to figure things out, but I always come back to the same two things: Loneliness and Death. Life ends before we figure anything out, most importantly how not to be lonely. Solitude is fine. But feeling like you have no one to love - abject lonliness - is not alright.

I drink coffee. Without coffee, I probably couldnt write.

I hid my underwear beneath a parked Peugeot.

I have very few hobbies. In fact, I have no hobbies.

Whether I'm writing scripts or prose, the goal is identical. To give pleasure. Now whether I succeed or not is up for debate, and, mostly, I fail. But I try. I like to make things. It's a way to stay busy during one's ephemeral and confusing life.

It's hard for me to think of writing a novel, because it takes so long.

For me, books have always been a way to feel less alone while being alone.