T’would be nice to know what I was doing. It seems that for the moment I drift. No particular place to go. Nothing in particular to do. No particular goal to achieve. (Except writing two books and co-writing a film script for a film that will most certainly get made…but enough of that. Such stuff doesn’t seem to count when one feels rootless.) I live in a charming little cabin in the deepy woods that could be taken away at any time. An interesting place to be. Like being weightless in a space capsule floating about in uncharted space. I could float off at any time. Yet I look out my tiny porthole with an eye just as it has always been: timeless, curious, eager, expectant, and fully believing in magic. Magic is nothing more than intent. I intend – ah, that’s how I started this paragraph.