Things remain confused and unfocused. This morning while we 3QFers were sitting around in the kitchen debating the merits of planning your lunch immediately after having finished your breakfast, Brandy was heard to note that our household is like a sitcom, only without the funny. It's startlingly accurate. Everything feels bland and detached.

Fell asleep for no reason at around 2:00. Dragged myself out of bed and went to get a cup of coffee; came home and decided that the best thing for this general malaise would be to do a little spring cleaning.

Big mistake. Like the man said, "Don't look back... something may be gaining on you." Pictures of old girlfriends. My grandfather's research for the totem pole he never got to make. Old business cards. Certificates of Authenticity for long-lost collectibles. Endless sheets of goals from 2001, 2002 and 2003. Pics of Bex getting done up the bung by TJ's pickle-wang. Confining friends and ancestors to mylar-coated cardboard pages; putting them away, and then noticing the holes, where the things you never took pictures of needed to be. All the little gaps where the most important things happened, for which their exists no record, no evidence, no ghosts.

And scripts. An inhuman, unearthly mountain of scripts. A thousand pages of subculture drafts. Think about that: a thousand pages. Draft upon draft of the Robin trilogy. A Pound of Flesh, still one of my favourite things I never made (and never could), and August, the script I wrote overnight in six hours after seeing Trainspotting for the first time. The second draft of Revenge of the Jedi, the script I bought when I was a teenager to teach myself proper screenplay formatting. The complete final draft of 3A6, sealed in time on May 25 1996, and something I'll probably never have the courage to read again. The complete 4010 proposal for The Storm, one of those quantifiable moments when your life was supposed to go one way, and it went another way entirely, and you can never undo it without ripping away all the sticky webs of time and process that have made you all of the things you are right now, like it or lump it.

So much paper.

It's genuinely amazing how much random inertia a single life is capable of amassing. It moves, all on its own, without even a whisper of breath from you, and yet you couldn't stop it with a keg of dynamite and a couple hundred Saxon warriors. Sometimes you step aside, and look around, and you're on a little green hill a hundred miles from where you thought you were supposed to be, and that big son of a bitch is still rolling away in the wrong direction.