I Have Very Few Hobbies. In Fact,

I Grew Up In Northern New Jersey - The Banlieue Of New York - And I Now Live In Brooklyn. I Am Separated From My Parents By About 50 Miles, But Really There Is Almost No Distance Between Us. I Speak To Them Nearly Every Day.

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.

The Real Self And The Public Self Are Intertwined, Like A Tumor Around An Organ, And You Can't Cut The Tumor Or You'll Kill The Organ, So They Live Together, Until The Tumor Chokes The Organ Off - But Which Self Is The Tumor?. Or It's Like Something Out Of Star Trek. The Borg.

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.

One Last Thing On Objectives - I Like To Make Things, Create Things, So That's Probably Been The Primary Objective All Along, Even Before The Ego Objective - To Make. To Record. But Why Record... That Gets Back To The Ego, A Little. Oh, Well. Making Is Good. I Like To Make Things.